NO RELATIONS.
59
"I hope so: for it will be the proof of our
innocence."
' ' And what was your object in buying a cow ?"
"To take her to Chavanon, and give her to
the woman who was my foster-mother, in grat-
itude for her care and as a token of my affec-
tion for her."
" And what is this woman's name?"
" Mother Barberin."
"Is she the wife of a working mason who
was lamed in Paris a few years ago?"
' ' Yes, sir. "
" That too will be proved."
But I did not answer this speech as I had an-
swered the one about the veterinarian at Ussel.
Seeing my embarrassment, the magistrate
pressed me with questions, and I was obliged to
tell h'<m that if Mother Barberin were examined
the end that we had proposed to ourselves
would be lost; there would be no surprise.
However, in the midst of all my anxiety I
had a feeling of lively satisfaction; since the
magistrate knew Mother Barberin, and would
inquire from her as to the truth or untruth of
my story, that proved that Mother Barberin was
alive all the time. I felt still more contented
when, in the midst of these questions, the mag-
istrate told ine that Barberin had returned to
Paris some time ago. This made me so joyful
that I found words persuasive enough to con-
vince him that the veterinarian's deposition
ought to be enough to prove that we had not
stolen our cow.
" And where did you get money enough to
buy this cow?"
This was the question which had so alarmed
Mattia when he had foreseen that it would be
put to him.
" We earned it."
"Where?   How?"
I related how, between Paris and Varses, and
between Varses and Mont Doré, we had earned
it and hoarded it sou by sou.
" And what brought you to Varses?"
This question involved a fresh tale: when the
magistrate heard that I had been buried in the
Truyère mine he stopped me, and said, in quite
a softened, almost friendly tone,—
>     " Which of you two is Remi?"
!     "I, sir."
• ' Who can prove that?   You have no papers,
the gendarme told me."
"No, sir."
"Well, tell me how the Varses catastrophe
happened. I read the account of it in the
papers : if you are really Remi you will not de-
ceive me.    I am listening: so mind."
The friendly tone of the magistrate gave me
courage; I could see very well that he was not
hostile to us.
When I had finished my story the magistrate
looked at me with a mild, softened expression.
I imagined that he was going to say that he
would set us at liberty; but it was not so. With-
out saying a word, he left me to myself. Prob-
ably he was going to interrogate Mattia, to see
if our stories agreed.
I remained alone with my reflections; but
after awhile the magistrate came back with
Mattia.                                     ¦                 TT    ,„
"I am going to make inquiries at Ussel,
said  he;   "and   if,  as I hope,  they confirm
your accounts, you will be set at liberty to-
morrow."
" And the cow?" asked Mattia.
" She will be given back to you."
" That's not what I mean," replied Mattia.
" Who will feed her? who will milk her?"
" Never fear, little fellow."
Mattia was reassured.
"If they milk our cow," said he, laughing,
"couldn't they give us the milk? it would be
nice for our supper."
As soon as the magistrate was gone, I an-
nounced to Mattia the two great pieces of news
which had made me forget that we were in pris-
on. Mother Barberin was alive; Barberin was
awav in Paris.                                      , .     7   ,
" The prince's cow will make a triumphal
entry," said Mattia.                                  .
And in bis joy he began dancing and singing.
I joined hands with him, infected with his
gayety ; and Capi, who until then had remained
in a corner sad and anxious, came and stood
on his hind legs between us. Then we aban-
doned ourselves to such a great dance that, the
concierge, terrified for the fate of his onions,
came to see if we were not rebelling. He made
us be quiet, but he did not speak so harshly as
when he had come in with the magistrate.
By that we understood that we were pretty
well out of the scrape; and this was soon
proved, for before long he came back again
carrying a large bowl quite full of milk,—our
own cow's milk. But that was not all: with
the bowl he gave us a large white loaf and a
piece of cold veal, which he said had been sent
by his worship the magistrate.
Never had prisoners been so well treated.
Then, as we ate the meat and drank the milk, I
changed my ideas about prisons: certainly they
were not so bad as we had fancied.
Mattia thought so too.
"Dinner and beds, and nothing to pay," he
said, laughing.    " What luck we have had!"
I wanted to frighten him.
" Suppose the veterinarian had died suddenly
since we saw him: who would answer for us
then?"
"One has such ideas only .when one is un-
happy," he replied, airily: "they are out of
place now."
CHAPTER IX.
MOTnBE BARBERIN.
We did not spend a bad night upon the
camp-bed: we had passed some less agreeable
in the open air.
"I dreamed of taking home the cow,"said
Mattia to me.
"So did I."
At eight o'clock in the morning our door
opened, and we saw the magistratecome in, fol-
lowed by our friend the veterinary surgeon,who
wished to come in person and release us. As for
the magistrate, his solicitude for two innocent
prisoners did not confine itself to the dinner
which he had offered us the day before. He
handed me a grand stamped paper.
" Yfou have been silly," said he to me, in a
friendly manner, " to set out in this way upon
the high-roads. Here is a passport that I have
got for you from the mayor : it will be your
safeguard for the future. A pleasant journey,
children!" And he shook us by the hand. As
for the veterinary surgeon, he kissed us.
We had entered this village in a very un-
pleasant manner; we left it in triumph, leading
our cow along by the halter, and walking with
our heads thrown back, glancing over our
shoulders at the peasants who were standing at
their doors.
" I only regret one thing," said Mattia: " it is
that the gendarme who saw fit to arrest us is
not here to see us go by."
"The gendarme did wrong, but we were
equally wrong to imagine that because we were
unfortunate we had nothing good to hope for."
"It is because we were not entirely unfort-
unate that we have had some luck : with five
francs in one's pocket, one is not utterly un-
fortunate."
"You might have said that yesterday; to-day
it is not allowable. You see, there are kind-
hearted people in the world."
We had received too sharp a lesson to have
any idea of letting go the cow's halter. She
was gentle, our cow, but also timid. We were
not long in reaching the village where Vitalis
and I had slept; from that there was only one
great plain to be crossed before arrivipg at the
hill-side which slopes to Chavanon.
As we went along the street of this village,
just as we came in front of the house where
Zerbino had stolen a crust, an idea occurred to
me which I hastened to communicate to Mattia.
" You know that I promised you some pan-
cakes at Mother Barberin's; but to make pan-
cakes it requires butter, flour, and eggs."
" They must be uncommonly good."
"I believe they are good: you'll see.    They
are rolled up, and cram your mouth full.    But
perhaps there is neither  butter nor flour at
Mother Barberin's, for she's not well off.    Sup-
pose we took her some?"
" That's a famous notion."
" Then hold the cow: above all things dont
let her go.    I'm going into that grocer's to buy
butter and flour.    As for eggs, if Mother Bar-
berin hasn't any. she must borrow some; for
we might break them on the way."
I went into the grocer's shop where Zerbino
had stolen his crust, and I bought a pound of
butter and two pounds of flour. Then we re-
sumed our march. I would rather not have
hurried our cow, but I was so very anxious to
arrive that in spite of myself I quickened my
Still ten'kilomètres; still eight; still six.
Strange to say, the road appeared to me longer
in drawing near to Mother Barberin than the
day when I went away from her; and yet that
day there was an icy rain falling, which I had
by no means forgotten. But 1 was quite ex-
cited, quite feverish, and every moment I looked
at my watch.
" Isn't it a fine country?" said I to Mattia.
" The view certainly is not spoiled by trees."
" When we go down the hill-side toward
Chavanon you will see trees, and fine ones,—
oaks and chestnut-trees."
" And with chestnuts?"
"I believe you! And then in Mother Bar-
berin's yard there is a crooked pear-tree, upon
which you may ride horse-back, which bears
pears as big as that; and good ones, you'll see."
"You'll see " was the burden of my song.
I imagined in good faith that I was conducting
Mattia into a land of wonders. After all, was
it not one to me? It was there that my eyes
had opened to the light. My first memories were
entwined around it. It was there that I had
been so happy, there that I had been beloved.
And all these impressions of my early joys,
rendered more vivid by the recollection of the
sufferings of my adventurous existence, came
back to me, rushing tumultuously into my
heart and head, as we approached my village.
It seemed as if my native air had a perfume
which intoxicated me: everything was fair to
me. And, infected by this intoxication, Mattia
also went back—butonly in imagination, alas!—
to the country where he was born.
" If you came to Lucca," he said, " I would
show you also fine things, you would see!"
" But we will go to Lucca when we have seen
Etiennette, Lisa, and Benjamin."
" You will really go to Lucca?"
"You have come with me to Mother Bar-
berin's; I will go with you to visit your mother
and your little sister Christina, whom I will
carry'in my arms if she is not too big.   She will
be my sister too."
"Oh, Remi!"
And he could say no more, so agitated was
he.
Talking thus, and walking always quickly,
we had reached the hill-top where the slope
begins which leads to Chavanon by several
intricate paths passing before Mother Barberin's
house. A few steps farther, and we gained the
spot where I had asked Vitalis's permission to
sit down upon the ridge to look at Mother
Barberin's dwelling, which I thought I was
never to see again.
"Take the halter," said I to Mattia.
And with  one  spring I jumped upon the
ridge. ¦ The valley was unchanged: its appear-
ance was the same; between its two clumps of
trees I saw the roof of Mother Barberin's house.
" What's the matter with you?" asked Mattia.
"There! there!"
He came near me, but without mounting tha
ridge, the grass of which our cow began to
munch.
" Follow my hand," said I to him. "There
is Mother Barberin's house; there's my pear-
tree; there's my garden."
Mattia, whose eye was not guided by memory
like mine, saw nothing very remarkable; but
he said nothing.
At that instant a tiny cloud of yellow'smoke
rose out of the chimney; and, as there was no,
wind, it mounted straight up in the air along
the hill-side.
" Mother Barberin is at home." said I. .
A slight breeze passed through the trees, and,
catching the smoke,  flung it in our faces: I
could smell oak-leaves from it.
Then suddenly I felt the tears filling my
eyes, and, springing down from the parapet, I
embraced Mattia. Capi jumped upon me, and
taking him in my arms, I kissed him also.
"Let us go down quickly," said I.
"If Mother Barberin is at home, how are we
to arrange our surprise?" said Mattia.
" You will go in alone; you will say that you
are bringing her a cow from the prince; and
when she asks you what prince you are talking
about, I will appear."
" What a pity that we are not able to make
a musical entry; that would be really fine!"
" Mattia, no nonsense!" ¦
" Be easy: I don't want to begin again; but
all the same, if that savage there only liked
music, a trumpet-flourish would have been
charminglv in place."
As we arrived at one of the angles of the
road which was exactly above Mother Bar-
berin's house, we saw a white coif appear in
the yard : it was Mother Barberin.    She opened ^