Suddenly, in the midst of this charmed silence, the prolonged blast of a huntsman's horn, and the deep baying of many hounds, came sweeping up the ravine below. The sleepers sprang to their feet, rubbed their eyes, and peered over the brink of the precipice.

"'Tis Madame la Comtesse out with the hounds!" said the elder of the three--a big, burly, sun-browned mountaineer of some fifty-five or sixty years of age.

"_Peste!_ It is my luck never to be in the way when she rides!"

exclaimed one of the two younger herdsmen. "Here is the third time our new mistress has hunted of late, and I have never yet seen her."

The horns rang out again, but this time farther away and more faintly.

Once more, and it was but a breath upon the breeze. Then all was silent as before.

"They have gone round by the Gorge des Loups," said the elder of the trio.

Then, looking round the horizon, he added:--

"There is a storm brewing somewhere--and the shadows are lengthening.

'Tis time we went down to the Buron, lads, and saw to the milking."

Now these three const.i.tuted the usual triumvirate of the Haute Auvergne--the _vacher_, or cowkeeper, (sometimes called the _buronnier_) who makes the cheeses which form the princ.i.p.al revenue of the landowners in this part of France; the _boutilier_ who makes the b.u.t.ter; and the _patre_, or herdsman, who looks after the cows, and keeps the Buron and dairy in order. The distinctions of rank among these three are strictly observed.

The _varher_ is a person of authority, "a wise fellow, and, what is more, an officer" the _boutilier_ comes next in dignity; and the _patre_ is under both. The Buron, or little wooden hut, in which they live during the six Summer months, in Switzerland would be called a chalet.

It is generally built of wood, and divided into three chambers, the first of which is for living and cooking in, and is provided with a rude fire-place and chimney; the second is for the cheese-making, and contains milk-pails, churns, and other implements; the third serves for a cheese-room, store-room, and sleeping-room. A small kitchen-garden, a stable, a pigsty, and an enclosure in which the cattle take refuge in rough weather, completes the establishment.

The Buron to which the three herdsmen now took their way stood on a green slope surrounded by oaks, about six hundred feet below the spot on which they had been sleeping. As they went along, the cows came to their call and followed them, knowing that milking-time was come. Every cow--and there were fifty in all--was branded on the flank with a coronet and an initial P, thus showing them to be the property of the Countess de Peyrelade, a young and wealthy widow whose estates extended for many miles to the eastward of the Plomb de Cantal. Other herds, other Burons, other dependents, she had scattered about the neighbouring hillsides, all portioned off in the same way--namely, fifty cows and three men to each district.

"Tell us, Pere Jacques," said the _boutilier_ when, the milking being done, the men sat outside the Buron door, smoking and chatting, "tell us what our new lady is like."

"Like!" repeated the cowkeeper. "Eh, _mon garcon_, it would take a more skilful tongue than mine to describe her! She is more beautiful than the Madonna in the Cathedral of St. Flour."

"When did you see her, Pere Jacques, and where?" asked the _patre_.

"_Mon enfant_, I have seen her from near by and from afar off. I have seen her as a child, a demoiselle, a bride, a widow. I have carried her in my arms, and danced her on my knee, many and many a time. Ah! that surprises you; but the snow has fallen for many a Winter on the summit of Mount Cantal since that time."

"Then it was a great many years ago, Father Jacques. How old is Madame la Comtesse?"

"Twenty-five years at the most, come September," replied Jacques. "And she's so fresh and beautiful that she does not yet look above eighteen.

We always used to call her the little Queen Marguerite; and sure, if a young girl were to be made a queen for her beauty, Marguerite would have been crowned ten years ago. Ah, when she married the old Comte de Peyrelade and went away to the King's court, there was not a soul in the province but missed her. It was a blessing even to look upon her; she was so fair, so smiling, so gracious! From everybody you heard, 'Well, have you been told the news? The little Queen Marguerite is gone!' And all the men sighed, and the women cried; and it was a sad day for the poor folks. Well, nine years have gone by since then. She has at last come back to us; the old Count is dead; and our little Queen will live with us once more, till the end of her days!"

"Perhaps," said the _boutilier_, who had hitherto been silent.

"Why perhaps?" said Pere Jacques, knitting his grey brows, "why perhaps?"

"Is not Madame young and beautiful?" asked the _boutilier_. "Is she not rich? Why, then, should she bury herself for life in an old chateau?

What will you bet that she does not go back to court before twelve months are over, and there marry some rich and handsome lord?"

"Hush! Pierre," replied Jacques, in a moody voice; "I tell you she will neither marry nor leave us. She has made a vow to that effect."

"Do ladies keep those vows?" asked the incredulous Pierre.

"She will. Listen, and I will tell you all that pa.s.sed nine years ago in the Chateau de Pradines, the home of our little Queen Marguerite before her marriage."

The two lads drew nearer, and the cowkeeper thus began:--

"The handsomest and n.o.blest among all Marguerite's lovers was M. le Chevalier de Fontane. She preferred him; and though he was but a younger son, with a lieutenant's commission, the old Baron de Pradines consented to the marriage for love of his daughter. The wedding day was fixed.

Then news came that Monsieur George, the brother of Mademoiselle Marguerite, was to have leave of absence from his regiment; and M. le Baron deferred the marriage till his arrival--and sorely he repented of it afterwards! Monsieur George was as much disliked as his father and sister were beloved in the province; and the day when he had first left it was a day of rejoicing amongst us. It was late one evening when he arrived at the chateau, bringing with him an old gentleman. This gentleman was the Count de Peyrelade. As soon as supper was over, Monsieur George went to his father's chamber, and there remained with him for a long time in conversation. No one ever knew what pa.s.sed between them; but the night was far spent when he came out, and the next day M. le Baron, who had been full of life and health before the arrival of his son, was confined to his bed in the extremity of illness.

A priest was sent for, and the last sacraments were administered; and then the poor old gentleman summoned all the household to take his farewell.

"'Marguerite,' said he to his daughter, who was crying bitterly--'Marguerite, I have but a few moments to live, and before I leave thee I have a prayer to address to thee.' And as Mademoiselle kissed his hands without being able to speak a word, he added, 'My daughter, promise me to marry M. de Peyrelade!'

"At these words the poor young lady gave a great cry, and fell on her knees at the foot of her father's bed. Then the Baron turned to the late Count:--

"'Monsieur,' said he, 'I know my daughter; she will obey my commands.

Promise me to make her happy.'

"The Count, greatly moved, promised to devote his life to her; and the poor dear master fell back quite dead!

"It was exactly twenty-four hours after his son's arrival that M. le Baron breathed his last. What a terrible night it was, boys! The rain and snow had never ceased falling since that fatal return. M. le Chevalier de Fontane, who knew nothing of what had pa.s.sed, came riding into the courtyard about an hour after the Baron had died. I ran out to him, for I was a stableman in the chateau, and I told him all that had happened. As he listened to me, he became as pale as a corpse, and I saw him reel in his saddle. Then he plunged his spurs into his horse's flanks, and fled away like a madman into the storm. From that time he was never seen or heard of again; but, as he took the road to the mountains, it was supposed that he fell, with his horse, into some chasm, and was buried in the snow. Every year, on the anniversary of that day, his family have a ma.s.s said for the repose of his soul."

Here the cowkeeper crossed himself devoutly, and his companions followed his example.

After a few minutes' silence, "Well, Pierre," he said, "now do you understand why Madame la Comtesse de Peyrelade has retired at the age of twenty-five to live in a ruinous old Chateau of Auvergne, and why she should never marry a second time?"

The _boutilier_ was so concerned that he had not the heart to say a word; but the herdsman, who was excessively curious, returned to the charge.

"You have not told us, Pere Jacques," said he, "why the Baron desired his daughter to marry the late Count instead of the Chevalier de Fontane."

"I can only tell you the reports," replied Jacques; "for n.o.body knows the truth of it. They said that M. George owed more money to the Count de Peyrelade than his father could pay, and that he had sold the hand of his sister to defray the debt. Every one knows that the Count was very much in love with her, and that she had refused him several times already."

"Alas!" exclaimed Pierre, "I don't wonder at the poor lady's determination. It is not her old husband that she grieves for, but her father and her lover; is it not, Pere Jacques?"

"Ay," replied the cowkeeper, "and it is not only past troubles that the gentle soul has to bear, but present troubles also! 'Tis not much peace, I fear, that she will find in Auvergne."

"Why so, friend?" said a deep voice behind the speakers, and a man of about thirty-eight or forty years of age, with a pale face, a stooping figure, and a melancholy expression of countenance came suddenly into the midst of them. The mountaineer and the ecclesiastic were oddly combined in his attire; for with the ca.s.sock and band he wore leathern gaiters, a powder-pouch and a cartridge-box; while across his shoulders was slung a double-barrelled musket. A _couteau de cha.s.se_ was thrust in his leathern belt, and a magnificent mountain-dog walked leisurely at his side.

"Good day, Monsieur le Cure," said the cowkeeper, respectfully. "Welcome to the Buron. Have you had good sport?"

"Not very, my good friend, not very," replied the priest.

"You are tired, Monsieur le Cure; come and rest awhile in the Buron. We can give you fresh milk and bread, and new cheese. Ah _dame_! you will not find such refreshments here as at the chateau, but they are heartily at your service."

"I will sit here with you, friends, and willingly accept a draught of milk," said the priest, as he took his place beside them on the gra.s.s; "but upon one condition; namely, that you will continue the subject of your conversation as freely as if I were not amongst you."

Pere Jacques was abashed and confounded. He looked uneasily to the right, and then to the left; and at last, having no other resource, "_Eh bien!_" he exclaimed, "I will e'en speak the truth, Monsieur le Cure, because it is wicked to tell a lie, and because you are a holy man and will not be offended with me. We were talking of Madame and M. George, the present Baron de Pradines. He is actually living here in the chateau, and here he is going to remain--M. George, the spendthrift brother of Madame, to whom, through your intercession, Monsieur le Cure, she is lately reconciled."

"Hush! Jacques," said the priest, gravely. "M. de Pradines was wild in his youth; but he has repented. It was he who made the first advances towards a reconciliation with Madame."

"I know that, M. le Cure," said the mountaineer, "I know that; but the Baron is poor, and knows how to look after his own interests. He is here for no good, and no good will come of his return. It is certain that the old well in the courtyard of the chateau, which was dry for years, has refilled these last few days; and you know _that_ to be a sure sign of some misfortune to the family."

"It is true," said the Cure superst.i.tiously, "it is true, Jacques."

And he grew thoughtful.