CHAPTER I THE BETROTHAL
    Pere Merlier's mill,
           one beautiful summer evening,
         was arranged
               for a grand fete.

    In the courtyard
        were three tables,
           placed end to end,
         which awaited the guests.

    Everyone knew that Francoise,
            Merlier's daughter,
         was that night
              to be betrothed to Dominique,
           a young man
             who was accused of idleness
               but whom the fair sex
                   for three leagues around
                gazed at with sparkling eyes,
         such a fine appearance
            had he.

    Pere Merlier's mill
        was pleasing to look upon.

    It stood exactly
           in the center of Rocreuse,
         where the highway
              made an elbow.

    The village had
         but one street,
           with two rows of huts,
         a row
               on each side
                   of the road;
        but at the elbow meadows
              spread out,
           and huge trees
              which lined the banks
                   of the Morelle
                  covered the extremity
                       of the valley
                     with lordly shade.

    There was not,
           in all Lorraine,
         a corner
               of nature more adorable.

    To the right and
           to the left thick woods,
         centenarian forests,
         towered up from gentle slopes,
           filling the horizon
               with a sea of verdure,
         while toward
               the south the plain
              stretched away,
           of marvelous fertility,
         displaying as far
               as the eye
            could reach
             patches of ground
                   divided by green hedges.

    But what
         constituted the special charm
               of Rocreuse
        was the coolness of
         that cut of verdure
               in the
                   most sultry days
                       of July and August.

    The Morelle
          descended from the forests
               of Gagny
             and seemed
          to have
              gathered the cold
                   from the foliage beneath
          which it flowed for leagues;
        it brought
               with it the murmuring sounds,
           the icy and
              concentrated shade of the woods.

    And it
        was not the sole source
               of coolness:
        all sorts of flowing
               streams gurgled through the forest;
         at each step
               springs bubbled up;
        one felt,
           on following the narrow pathways,
         that there
            must exist subterranean lakes
              which pierced
                   through beneath the moss and
                  availed themselves
                       of the smallest crevices
                     at the feet of trees
                      or between the rocks
                    to burst
                           forth in crystalline fountains.

    The whispering voices
           of these brooks
        were so numerous
               and so loud
         that they drowned
               the song of the bullfinches.

    It was
          like some enchanted
               park with cascades
                   falling from every portion.

    Below the meadows were damp.

    Gigantic chestnut trees
          cast dark shadows.

    On the borders
           of the meadows long hedges
               of poplars
          exhibited in lines
               their rustling branches.

    Two avenues
           of enormous plane trees
          stretched across the fields
            toward the ancient
               Chateau de Gagny,
           then a mass of ruins.

    In this constantly
         watered district the grass
        grew to an extraordinary height.

    It resembled a garden
           between two
          wooded hills,
           a natural garden,
         of which the meadows
            were the lawns,
           the giant trees
              marking the colossal flower beds.

    When the sun's rays
           at noon
          poured straight downward the shadows
               assumed a bluish tint;
        scorched grass
            slept in the heat,
           while an icy shiver
               passed beneath the foliage.

    And there it was
         that Pere Merlier's mill
               enlivened with
                   its ticktack
                 a corner
                   of wild verdure.

    The structure,
           built of plaster and planks,
         seemed as old
               as the world.

    It dipped partially
           in the Morelle,
         which rounded at
             that point
                   into a transparent basin.

    A sluice had been made,
           and the water
            fell from a height of
                  several meters
                       upon the mill wheel,
         which cracked as it turned,
           with the asthmatic cough
               of a faithful servant
              grown old in the house.

    When Pere Merlier
        was advised to change it
         he shook his head,
           saying that a new wheel
            would be lazier
                and would not so well