the landlord, betook himself to the knave of Vouvray, the jovial
merry-maker, the comic man of the neighborhood, compelled by fame and

nature to supply the town with merriment. This country Figaro was once
a dyer, and now possessed about seven or eight thousand francs a year,

a pretty house on the slope of the hill, a plump little wife, and
robust health. For ten years he had had nothing to do but take care of

his wife and his garden, marry his daughter, play whist in the
evenings, keep the run of all the gossip in the neighborhood, meddle

with the elections, squabble with the large proprietors, and order
good dinners; or else trot along the embankment to find out what was

going on in Tours, torment the cure, and finally, by way of dramatic
entertainment, assist at the sale of lands in the neighborhood of his

vineyards. In short, he led the true Tourangian life,--the life of a
little country-townsman. He was, moreover, an important member of the

bourgeoisie,--a leader among the small proprietors, all of them
envious, jealous, delighted to catch up and retailgossip and

calumnies against the aristocracy; dragging things down to their own
level; and at war with all kinds of superiority, which they deposited

with the fine composure of ignorance. Monsieur Vernier--such was the
name of this great little man--was just finishing his breakfast, with

his wife and daughter on either side of him, when Gaudissart entered
the room through a window that looked out on the Loire and the Cher,

and lighted one of the gayest dining-rooms of that gay land.
"Is this Monsieur Vernier himself?" said the traveller, bending his

vertebral column with such grace that it seemed to be elastic.
"Yes, Monsieur," said the mischievous ex-dyer, with a scrutinizing

look which took in the style of man he had to deal with.
"I come, Monsieur," resumed Gaudissart, "to solicit the aid of your

knowledge and insight to guide my efforts in this district, where
Mitouflet tells me you have the greatest influence. Monsieur, I am

sent into the provinces on an enterprise of the utmost importance,
undertaken by bankers who--"

"Who mean to win our tricks," said Vernier, long used to the ways of
commercial travellers and to their periodical visits.

"Precisely," replied Gaudissart, with native impudence. "But with your
fine tact, Monsieur, you must be aware that we can't win tricks from

people unless it is their interest to play at cards. I beg you not to
confound me with the vulgar herd of travellers who succeed by humbug

or importunity. I am no longer a commercial traveller. I was one, and
I glory in it; but to-day my mission is of higher importance, and

should place me, in the minds of superior people, among those who
devote themselves to the enlightenment of their country. The most

distinguished bankers in Paris take part in this affair; not
fictitiously, as in some shameful speculations which I call rat-traps.

No, no, nothing of the kind! I should never condescend--never!--to
hawk about such CATCH-FOOLS. No, Monsieur; the most respectable houses

in Paris are concerned in this enterprise; and their interests
guarantee--"

Hereupon Gaudissart drew forth his whole string of phrases, and
Monsieur Vernier let him go the length of his tether, listening with

apparent interest which completely deceived him. But after the word
"guarantee" Vernier paid no further attention to our traveller's

rhetoric, and turned over in his mind how to play him some malicious
trick and deliver a land, justly considered half-savage by speculators

unable to get a bite of it, from the inroads of these Parisian
caterpillars.

At the head of an enchanting valley, called the Valley Coquette
because of its windings and the curves which return upon each other at

every step, and seem more and more lovely as we advance, whether we
ascend or descend them, there lived, in a little house surrounded by

vineyards, a half-insane man named Margaritis. He was of Italian
origin, married, but childless; and his wife took care of him with a

courage fully appreciated by the neighborhood. Madame Margaritis was
undoubtedly in real danger from a man who, among other fancies,

persisted in carrying about with him two long-bladed knives with which
he sometimes threatened her. Who has not seen the wonderful self-

devotion shown by provincials who consecrate their lives to the care
of sufferers, possibly because of the disgrace heaped upon a

bourgeoise if she allows her husband or children to be taken to a
public hospital? Moreover, who does not know the repugnance which

these people feel to the payment of the two or three thousand francs
required at Charenton or in the private lunatic asylums? If any one

had spoken to Madame Margaritis of Doctors Dubuisson, Esquirol,
Blanche, and others, she would have preferred, with noble indignation,

to keep her thousands and take care of the "good-man" at home.
As the incomprehensible whims of this lunatic are connected with the

current of our story, we are compelled to exhibit the most striking of
them. Margaritis went out as soon as it rained, and walked about bare-

headed in his vineyard. At home he made incessant inquiries for
newspapers; to satisfy him his wife and the maid-servant used to give

him an old journal called the "Indre-et-Loire," and for seven years he
had never yet perceived that he was reading the same number over and

over again. Perhaps a doctor would have observed with interest the
connection that evidently existed between the recurring and spasmodic

demands for the newspaper and the atmospheric variations of the
weather.

Usually when his wife had company, which happened nearly every
evening, for the neighbors, pitying her situation, would frequently

come to play at boston in her salon, Margaritis remained silent in a
corner and never stirred. But the moment ten o'clock began to strike

on a clock which he kept shut up in a large oblong closet, he rose at
the stroke with the mechanicalprecision of the figures which are made

to move by springs in the German toys. He would then advance slowly
towards the players, give them a glance like the automatic gaze of the

Greeks and Turks exhibited on the Boulevard du Temple, and say
sternly, "Go away!" There were days when he had lucid intervals and

could give his wife excellent advice as to the sale of their wines;
but at such times he became extremelyannoying, and would ransack her

closets and steal her delicacies, which he devoured in secret.
Occasionally, when the usual visitors made their appearance he would

treat them with civility; but as a general thing his remarks and
replies were incoherent. For instance, a lady once asked him, "How do

you feel to-day, Monsieur Margaritis?" "I have grown a beard," he
replied, "have you?" "Are you better?" asked another. "Jerusalem!

Jerusalem!" was the answer. But the greater part of the time he gazed
stolidly at his guests without uttering a word; and then his wife

would say, "The good-man does not hear anything to-day."
On two or three occasions in the course of five years, and usually

about the time of the equinox, this remark had driven him to frenzy;
he flourished his knives and shouted, "That joke dishonors me!"

As for his daily life, he ate, drank, and walked about like other men
in sound health; and so it happened that he was treated with about the

same respect and attention that we give to a heavy piece of furniture.
Among his many absurdities was one of which no man had as yet

discovered the object, although by long practice the wiseheads of the
community had learned to unravel the meaning of most of his vagaries.

He insisted on keeping a sack of flour and two puncheons of wine in
the cellar of his house, and he would allow no one to lay hands on

them. But then the month of June came round he grew uneasy with the
restless anxiety of a madman about the sale of the sack and the

puncheons. Madame Margaritis could nearly always persuade him that the
wine had been sold at an enormous price, which she paid over to him,

and which he hid so cautiously that neither his wife nor the servant
who watched him had ever been able to discover its hiding-place.

The evening before Gaudissart reached Vouvray Madame Margaritis had
had more difficulty than usual in deceiving her husband, whose mind

happened to be uncommonly lucid.
"I really don't know how I shall get through to-morrow," she had said

to Madame Vernier. "Would you believe it, the good-man insists on
watching his two casks of wine. He has worried me so this whole day,