Niseron, the Aristides of Blangy, spoke little, like all noble dupes
who wrap themselves in the mantle of resignation; but he was never
silent against evil, and the peasants feared him as thieves fear the
police. He seldom came more than six times a year to the Grand-I-Vert,
though he was always warmly welcomed there. The old man cursed the
want of charity of the rich,--their selfishness disgusted him; and
through this fiber of his mind he seemed to the peasants to belong to
them; they were in the habit of saying, "Pere Niseron doesn't like the
rich; he's one of us."

The civic crown won by this noble life throughout the valley lay in
these words: "That good old Niseron! there's not a more honest man."
Often taken as umpire in certain kinds of disputes, he embodied the
meaning of that archaic term,--the village elder. Always extremely
clean, though threadbare, he wore breeches, coarse woollen stockings,
hob-nailed shoes, the distinctively French coat with large buttons and
the broad-brimmed felt hat to which all old peasants cling; but for
daily wear he kept a blue jacket so patched and darned that it looked
like a bit of tapestry. The pride of a man who feels he is free, and
knows he is worthy of freedom, gave to his countenance and his whole
bearing a _something_ that was inexpressibly noble; you would have felt
he wore a robe, not rags.

"Hey! what's happening so unusual?" he said, "I heard the noise down
here from the belfry."

They told him of Vatel's attack on the old woman, talking all at once
after the fashion of country-people.

"If she didn't cut the tree, Vatel was wrong; but if she did cut it,