Medallion put it into his head on the day that Benoit and Annette were
married. "See," said Medallion, "Annette wouldn't have you--and quite
right--and she took what was left of that Benoit, who'll laugh at you
over his mush-and-milk."

"Benoit will want flour some day, with no money." The old man chuckled
and rubbed his hands. "That's nothing; he has the girl--an angel!"
"Good enough, that is what I said of her--an angel!"

"Get married yourself, Farette."

For reply Farette thrust a bag of native tabac into Medallion's hands.
Then they went over the names of the girls in the village. Medallion
objected to those for whom he wished a better future, but they decided at
last on Julie Lachance, who, Medallion thought, would in time profoundly
increase Farette's respect for the memory of his first wife; for Julie
was not an angel. Then the details were ponderously thought out by the
miller, and ponderously acted upon, with the dry approval of Medallion,
who dared not tell the Cure of his complicity, though he was without
compunction. He had a sense of humour, and knew there could be no
tragedy in the thing--for Julie. But the miller was a careful man and
original in his methods. He still possessed the wardrobe of the first
wife, thoughtfully preserved by his sister, even to the wonderful grey
watered-poplin which had been her wedding-dress. These he had taken out,
shaken free of cayenne, camphor, and lavender, and sent upon the back of
Parpon, the dwarf, to the house where Julie lodged (she was an orphan),
following himself with a statement on brown paper, showing the extent of
his wealth, and a parcel of very fine flour from the new stones in his
mill. All was spread out, and then he made a speech, describing his