present. Of his childhood he dreamed and must
sometimes laugh because of a childish peccadillo;
of his youth he dreamed and of budding manhood,
happy years when he took great pride in his muscles,
when with three mighty blows he had felled a tree,
and a hefty fellow at that, he told Christophe; and
then of his courtship of Marie he dreamed, he would
constantly dream that they two were courting.
'Ah, my son, to-day I was wooing your mother.
So young she was and a little bit frightened. Ah, my
son, there was not a line on her face, nor a single
white thread in her thick black hair. She was wearing
a comb I had given her; there were many small
scrolls of gold upon it. It had once belonged to my
great-grandmother — the one who was loved by a
Spanish sailor; but she would not have him, caspis-
tdlo, she would not! She preferred an honest joiner
from Provence.5
But of all his recurrent dreams there was one that
Jouse affirmed to be the most persistent. Mireio
would come padding up to the bed and would lay
her great paws upon his chest, the while she looked at
him very intently; and then she would suddenly lick
his cheek and look at him again. Jouse always de-
clared that Mireio was trying to tell him something*
And one evening Jouse said to his son:
el think I now know what she wishes to tell me.
It is that she wishes to say she forgives. ... I am
glad she forgives me that terrible beating. Ai! las,
the poor beast, I must have been mad, for I beat her
until she was bleeding and spent. . . /
'You beat her?5 breathed Christophe, grown
suddenly pale.
And J6usŁ nodded: 'Yes, yes, I beat her; and this
I did for your sake, my son; I did it because I thought
she might harm you. I beat her although she was
covered with sores. . . . Ai, ai, if her sores were
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