grows the vine, nourishing with generous juice its purple, white, and golden grapes.

Once a week, a boat is sent to deliver the bread which has been baked at an oven — the common property of all. There — like the seigneurs of early days — powerful in virtue of your dogs, your fishing-lines, your guns, and your beautiful reed-built house, would you live, rich in the produce of the chase, in plentitude of absolute secrecy. There would years of your life roll away, at the end of which, no longer recognizable, for you would have been perfectly transformed, you would have succeeded in acquiring a destiny accorded to you by Heaven. There are a thousand pistoles in this bag, monseigneur — more, far more, than sufficient to purchase the whole marsh of which I have spoken; more than enough to live there as