an end at the heels of an emperor, while he himself fell into utter
poverty, to which Rigou stealthily managed to reduce him. And why?
Because Niseron had never been willing to accept anything from him.
Reiterated refusals showed the ex-priest in what profound contempt the
nephew of the curate held him; and now that icy scorn was revenged by
the terrible threat as to his little granddaughter, about which the
Abbe Brossette spoke to the countess.

The old man had composed in his own mind a history of the French
republic, filled with the glorious features which gave immortality to
that heroic period to the exclusion of all else. The infamous deeds,
the massacres, the spoliations, his virtuous soul ignored; he admired,
with a single mind, the devotedness of the people, the "Vengeur," the
gifts to the nation, the uprising of the country to defend its
frontier; and he still pursued his dream that he might sleep in peace.

The Revolution produced many poets like old Niseron, who sang their
poems in the country solitudes, in the army, openly or secretly, by
deeds buried beneath the whirlwind of that storm, just as the wounded
left behind to die in the great wars of the empire cried out, "Long
live the Emperor!" This sublimity of soul belongs especially to
France. The Abbe Brossette respected the convictions of the old man,
who became simply but deeply attached to the priest from hearing him
say, "The true republic is in the Gospel." The stanch republican
carried the cross, and wore the sexton's robe, half-red, half-black,
and was grave and dignified in church,--supporting himself by the
triple functions with which he was invested by the abbe, who was able
to give the fine old man, not, to be sure, enough to live on, but
enough to keep him from dying of hunger.