she had always bullied.

"Poor Jean Jacques!" said Virginie Poucette to herself as her horses ate
up the ground. "That's another bit of bad luck. He'll not sleep to-
night. Ah, the poor Jean Jacques--and all alone--not a hand to hold; no
one to rumple that shaggy head of his or pat him on the back! His wife
and Ma'm'selle Zoe, they didn't know a good thing when they had it. No,
he'll not sleep to-night-ah, my dear Jean Jacques!"




CHAPTER XIX

SEBASTIAN DOLORES DOES NOT SLEEP

But Jean Jacques did sleep well that night; though it would have been
better for him if he had not done so. The contractor's workmen had
arrived in the early afternoon, he had seen the first ton of debris
removed from the ruins of the historic mill, and it was crowned by the
gold Cock of Beaugard, all grimy with the fire, but jaunty as of yore.
The cheerfulness of the workmen, who sang gaily an old chanson of mill-
life as they tugged at the timbers and stones, gave a fillip to the
spirits of Jean Jacques, to whom had come a red-letter day.

Like Mirza on the high hill of Bagdad he had had his philosophic
meditations; his good talk with Virginie Poucette had followed; and the
woman of her lingered in the feeling of his hand all day, as something
kind and homelike and true. Also in the evening had come M. Fille, who
brought him a message from Judge Carcasson, that he must make the world