Pere Merlier’s mill, one beautiful summer evening, was arranged for a grand fete. In the courtyard were three tables, placed end to end, which awaited the guests. Everyone knew that Francoise, Merlier’s daughter, was that night to be betrothed to Dominique. He was a young man who was accused of isleness. But the fair sex for three leagues around gazed at him with sparkling eyes, such a fine appearance had he.Pere Merlier’s mill was pleasing to look upon. It stood exactly in the center of Rocreuse, where the highway made an elbow. The village had but one street, with two rows of huts, a row on each side of the road. But at the elbow meadows spread out. Huge trees which lined the banks of the Morelle covered the extremity of the valley with lordly shade.There was not, in all Lorraine, a corner of nature more adorable. To the right and to the left thick woods, centenarian forests, towered up from gentle slopes. They were filling the horizon with a sea of verdure. While toward the south the plain displaying as far as the eye could reach patches of ground divided by green hedges.