Then Jean, blushing up to his ears, managed to get at the little
paper cornucopia, and held it out.

She began to eat the little bonbons, rolling them from one cheek
to the other where they made little round lumps. The two

soldiers, seated before her, gazed at her with emotion and
delight.

Then she went to milk her cow, and once more gave them some milk
on coming back.

They thought of her all the week; several times they even spoke
of her. The next Sunday she sat down with them for a little

longer talk; and all three, seated side by side, their eyes lost
in the distance, clasping their knees with their hands, told the

small doings, the minute details of life in the villages where
they had been born, while over there the cow, seeing that the

milkmaid had stopped on her way, stretched out toward her its
heavy head with its dripping nostrils, and gave a long low to

call her.
Soon the girl consented to eat a bit of bread with them and drink

a mouthful of wine. She often brought them plums in her pocket,
for the season of plums had come. Her presence sharpened the wits

of the two little Breton soldiers, and they chattered like two
birds.

But, one Tuesday, Luc le Ganidec asked for leave--a thing which
had never happened before--and he did not return until ten

o'clock at night. Jean racked his brains uneasily for a reason
for his comrade's going out in this way.

The next Thursday Luc, having borrowed ten sous from his
bedfellow, again asked and obtained permission to leave the

barracks for several hours. When he set off with Jean on their
Sunday walk his manner was very queer, quite restless, and quite

changed. Kerderen did not understand, but he vaguely suspected
something without divining what it could be.

They did not say a word to one another until they reached their
usual halting-place, where, from their constant sitting in the

same spot the grass was quite worn away. They ate their breakfast
slowly. Neither of them felt hungry.

Before long the girl appeared. As on every Sunday, they watched
her coming. When she was quite near, Luc rose and made two steps

forward. She put her milk-pail on the ground and kissed him. She
kissed him passionately, throwing her arms about his neck,

without noticing Jean, without remembering that he was there,
without even seeing him.

And he sat there desperate, poor Jean, so desperate that he did
not understand, his soul quite overwhelmed, his heart bursting,

but not yet understanding himself. Then the girl seated herself
beside Luc, and they began to chatter.

Jean did not look at them. He now divined why his comrade had
gone out twice during the week, and he felt within him a burning

grief, a kind of wound, that sense of rending which is caused by
treason.

Luc and the girl went off together to change the position of the
cow. Jean followed them with his eyes. He saw them departing side

by side. The red breeches of his comrade made a bright spot on
the road. It was Luc who picked up the mallet and hammered down

the stake to which they tied the beast.
The girl stooped to milk her, while he stroked the cow's sharp

spine with a careless hand. Then they left the milk-pail on the
grass, and went deep into the wood.

Jean saw nothing but the wall of leaves where they had entered;
and he felt himself so troubled that if he had tried to rise he

would certainly have fallen. He sat motionless, stupefied by
astonishment and suffering, with an agony which was simple but

deep. He wanted to cry, to run away, to hide himself, never to
see anybody any more.

Soon he saw them issuing from the thicket. They returned slowly,
holding each other's hands as in the villages do those who are

promised. It was Luc who carried the pail.
They kissed one another again before they separated, and the girl

went off after having thrown Jean a friendly "Good evening" and a
smile which was full of meaning. To-day she no longer thought of

offering him any milk.
The two little soldiers sat side by side, motionless as usual,

silent and calm, their placid faces betraying nothing of all
which troubled their hearts. The sun fell on them. Sometimes the

cow lowed, looking at them from afar.
At their usual hour they rose to go back. Luc cut a switch. Jean

carried the empty bottle to return it to the wine-seller at
Bezons. Then they sallied out upon the bridge, and, as they did

every Sunday, stopped several minutes in the middle to watch the
water flowing.

Jean leaned, leaned more and more, over the iron railing, as
though he saw in the current something which attracted him. Luc

said: "Are you trying to drink?" Just as he uttered the last word
Jean's head overbalanced his body, his legs described a circle in

the air, and the little blue and red soldier fell in a heap,
struck the water, and disappeared.

Luc, his tongue paralyzed with anguish, tried in vain to shout.
Farther down he saw something stir; then the head of his comrade

rose to the surface of the river and sank immediately. Farther
still he again perceived a hand, a single hand, which issued from

the stream and then disappear. That was all.
The bargemen who dragged the river did not find the body that

day.
Luc set out alone for the barracks, going at a run, his soul

filled with despair. He told of the accident, with tears in his
eyes, and a husky voice, blowing his nose again and again: "He

leaned over--he--he leaned over--so far--so far that his head
turned a somersault; and--and--so he fell--he fell--"

Choked with emotion, he could say no more. If he had only known!
GHOSTS

Just at the time when the Concordat was in its most flourishing
condition, a young man belonging to a wealthy and highly

respectable middle-class family went to the office of the head of
the police at P----, and begged for his help and advice, which

was immediately promised him.
"My father threatens to disinherit me," the young man began,

"although I have never offended against the laws of the State, of
morality, or against his paternal authority, merely because I do

not share his blind reverence for the Catholic Church and her
clergy. On that account he looks upon me, not merely as

Latitudinarian but as a perfect Atheist, and a faithful old
manservant of ours, who is much attached to me, and who

accidentally saw my father's will, told me in confidence that he
had left all his property to the Jesuits. I think this is highly

suspicious, and I fear that the priests have been maligning me to
my father. Until less than a year ago, we used to live very

quietly and happily together, but ever since he has had so much
to do with the clergy, our domestic peace and happiness are at an

end."
"What you have told me," replied the official, "is as likely as

it is regrettable, but I fail to see how I can interfere in the
matter. Your father is in full possession of all his mental

faculties, and can dispose of all his property exactly as he
pleases. I think that your protest is premature; you must wait