passion, and who spent large sums on his dogs, his keepers, his ferrets
and his guns. The bride, Rosalie Roussel, had been courted by all the
likely young fellows in the district, for they all thought her handsome
and they knew that she would have a good dowry. But she had chosen Patu;
partly, perhaps, because she liked him better than she did the others,
but still more, like a careful Normandy girl, because he had more crown
pieces.

As they entered the white gateway of the husband's farm, forty shots
resounded without their seeing those who fired, as they were hidden in
the ditches. The noise seemed to please the men, who were slouching along
heavily in their best clothes, and Patu left his wife, and running up to
a farm servant whom he perceived behind a tree, took his gun and fired a
shot himself, as frisky as a young colt. Then they went on, beneath the
apple trees which were heavy with fruit, through the high grass and
through the midst of the calves, who looked at them with their great
eyes, got up slowly and remained standing, with their muzzles turned
toward the wedding party.

The men became serious when they came within measurable distance of the
wedding dinner. Some of them, the rich ones, had on tall, shining silk
hats, which seemed altogether out of place there; others had old
head-coverings with a long nap, which might have been taken for moleskin,
while the humblest among them wore caps. All the women had on shawls,
which they wore loosely on their back, holding the tips ceremoniously
under their arms. They were red, parti-colored, flaming shawls, and their
brightness seemed to astonish the black fowls on the dung-heap, the ducks
on the side of the pond and the pigeons on the thatched roofs.

The extensive farm buildings seemed to be waiting there at the end of