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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of The devil’s pool, by George Sand
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: The devil’s pool
+
+Author: George Sand
+
+Translators: Jane Minot Sedgwick and Ellery Sedgwick
+
+Etcher: E. Abot
+
+Release Date: July 4, 2007 [eBook #21993]
+[Last Update: September 7, 2022]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEVIL’S POOL ***
+
+
+
+
+THE DEVIL’S POOL
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: (Frontispiece)]
+
+
+
+
+                         THE DEVIL’S POOL
+
+
+                                By
+                            George Sand
+
+
+                   TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY
+                        JANE MINOT SEDGWICK
+                                AND
+                          ELLERY SEDGWICK
+
+                    [Illustration: (Ornament)]
+
+                    WITH AN ETCHING BY E. ABOT
+
+               [Illustration: (Publisher colophon)]
+
+                              BOSTON
+                       LITTLE, BROWN, & CO.
+                               1901
+
+
+
+
+                        Copyright, 1894, by
+                     GEORGE H. RICHMOND & CO.
+
+
+
+
+Table of Contents
+
+
+  CHAPTER
+
+     I      THE TILLAGE OF THE SOIL
+
+    II      FATHER MAURICE
+
+   III      GERMAIN, THE SKILLED HUSBANDMAN
+
+    IV      MOTHER GUILLETTE
+
+     V      PETIT-PIERRE
+
+    VI      ON THE HEATH
+
+   VII      UNDERNEATH THE BIG OAKS
+
+  VIII      THE EVENING PRAYER
+
+    IX      DESPITE THE COLD
+
+     X      BENEATH THE STARS
+
+    XI      THE BELLE OF THE VILLAGE
+
+   XII      THE MASTER
+
+  XIII      THE OLD WOMAN
+
+   XIV      THE RETURN TO THE FARM
+
+    XV      MOTHER MAURICE
+
+   XVI      LITTLE MARIE
+
+
+            APPENDIX
+
+     I      A COUNTRY WEDDING
+
+    II      THE WEDDING FAVORS
+
+   III      THE WEDDING
+
+    IV      THE CABBAGE
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: (Ornament)]
+
+THE DEVIL’S POOL
+
+
+
+
+THE AUTHOR TO THE READER
+
+      A la sueur de ton visaige,
+        Tu gagnerais ta pauvre vie.
+      Après long travail et usaige,
+        Voicy la _mort_ qui te convie.[1]
+
+This quaint old French verse, written under one of Holbein’s
+pictures, is profoundly melancholy. The engraving represents a
+laborer driving his plow through the middle of a field. Beyond him
+stretches a vast horizon, dotted with wretched huts; the sun is
+sinking behind the hill. It is the end of a hard day’s work. The
+peasant is old, bent, and clothed in rags. He is urging onward a
+team of four thin and exhausted horses; the plowshare sinks into
+a stony and ungrateful soil. One being only is active and alert
+in this scene of toil and sorrow. It is a fantastic creature.
+A skeleton armed with a whip, who acts as plowboy to the old
+laborer, and running along through the furrow beside the terrified
+horses, goads them on. This is the specter Death, whom Holbein
+has introduced allegorically into that series of religious and
+philosophic subjects, at once melancholy and grotesque, entitled
+“The Dance of Death.”
+
+In this collection, or rather this mighty composition, where Death,
+who plays his part on every page, is the connecting link and
+predominating thought, Holbein has called up kings, popes, lovers,
+gamesters, drunkards, nuns, courtesans, thieves, warriors, monks,
+Jews, and travelers,--all the people of his time and our own; and
+everywhere the specter Death is among them, taunting, threatening,
+and triumphing. He is absent from one picture only, where Lazarus,
+lying on a dunghill at the rich man’s door, declares that the
+specter has no terrors for him; probably because he has nothing to
+lose, and his existence is already a life in death.
+
+Is there comfort in this stoical thought of the half-pagan
+Christianity of the Renaissance, and does it satisfy religious
+souls? The upstart, the rogue, the tyrant, the rake, and all those
+haughty sinners who make an ill use of life, and whose steps are
+dogged by Death, will be surely punished; but can the reflection
+that death is no evil make amends for the long hardships of the
+blind man, the beggar, the madman, and the poor peasant? No! An
+inexorable sadness, an appalling fatality brood over the artist’s
+work. It is like a bitter curse, hurled against the fate of
+humanity.
+
+Holbein’s faithful delineation of the society in which he lived
+is, indeed, painful satire. His attention was engrossed by crime
+and calamity; but what shall we, who are artists of a later date,
+portray? Shall we look to find the reward of the human beings of
+to-day in the contemplation of death, and shall we invoke it as the
+penalty of unrighteousness and the compensation of suffering?
+
+No, henceforth, our business is not with death, but with life. We
+believe no longer in the nothingness of the grave, nor in safety
+bought with the price of a forced renunciation; life must be
+enjoyed in order to be fruitful. Lazarus must leave his dunghill,
+so that the poor need no longer exult in the death of the rich. All
+must be made happy, that the good fortune of a few may not be a
+crime and a curse. As the laborer sows his wheat, he must know that
+he is helping forward the work of life, instead of rejoicing that
+Death walks at his side. We may no longer consider death as the
+chastisement of prosperity or the consolation of distress, for God
+has decreed it neither as the punishment nor the compensation of
+life. Life has been blessed by Him, and it is no longer permissible
+for us to leave the grave as the only refuge for those whom we are
+unwilling to make happy.
+
+There are some artists of our own day, who, after a serious survey
+of their surroundings, take pleasure in painting misery, the
+sordidness of poverty, and the dunghill of Lazarus. This may belong
+to the domain of art and philosophy; but by depicting poverty as
+so hideous, so degraded, and sometimes so vicious and criminal,
+do they gain their end, and is that end as salutary as they would
+wish? We dare not pronounce judgment. They may answer that they
+terrify the unjust rich man by pointing out to him the yawning pit
+that lies beneath the frail covering of wealth; just as in the time
+of the Dance of Death, they showed him his gaping grave, and Death
+standing ready to fold him in an impure embrace. Now, they show
+him the thief breaking open his doors, and the murderer stealthily
+watching his sleep. We confess we cannot understand how we can
+reconcile him to the human nature he despises, or make him sensible
+of the sufferings of the poor wretch whom he dreads, by showing him
+this wretch in the guise of the escaped convict or the nocturnal
+burglar. The hideous phantom Death, under the repulsive aspect in
+which he has been represented by Holbein and his predecessors,
+gnashing his teeth and playing the fiddle, has been powerless to
+convert the wicked and console their victims. And does not our
+literature employ the same means as the artists of the Middle Ages
+and the Renaissance?
+
+The revelers of Holbein fill their glasses in a frenzy to dispel
+the idea of Death, who is their cup-bearer, though they do not see
+him. The unjust rich of our own day demand cannon and barricades to
+drive out the idea of an insurrection of the people which Art shows
+them as slowly working in the dark, getting ready to burst upon the
+State. The Church of the Middle Ages met the terrors of the great
+of the earth with the sale of indulgences. The government of to-day
+soothes the uneasiness of the rich by exacting from them large sums
+for the support of policemen, jailors, bayonets, and prisons.
+
+Albert Durer, Michael Angelo, Holbein, Callot, and Goya have made
+powerful satires on the evils of their times and countries, and
+their immortal works are historical documents of unquestionable
+value. We shall not refuse to artists the right to probe the wounds
+of society and lay them bare to our eyes; but is the only function
+of art still to threaten and appall? In the literature of the
+mysteries of iniquity, which talent and imagination have brought
+into fashion, we prefer the sweet and gentle characters, which can
+attempt and effect conversions, to the melodramatic villains, who
+inspire terror; for terror never cures selfishness, but increases
+it.
+
+We believe that the mission of art is a mission of sentiment and
+love, that the novel of to-day should take the place of the parable
+and the fable of early times, and that the artist has a larger and
+more poetic task than that of suggesting certain prudential and
+conciliatory measures for the purpose of diminishing the fright
+caused by his pictures. His aim should be to render attractive the
+objects he has at heart, and, if necessary, I have no objection
+to his embellishing them a little. Art is not the study of
+positive reality, but the search for ideal truth, and the “Vicar
+of Wakefield” was a more useful and healthy book than the “Paysan
+Perverti,” or the “Liaisons Dangereuses.”
+
+Forgive these reflections of mine, kind reader, and let them stand
+as a preface, for there will be no other to the little story I am
+going to relate to you. My tale is to be so short and so simple,
+that I felt obliged to make you my apologies for it beforehand, by
+telling you what I think of the literature of terror.
+
+I have allowed myself to be drawn into this digression for the sake
+of a laborer; and it is the story of a laborer which I have been
+meaning to tell you, and which I shall now tell you at once.
+
+
+[1]
+
+      In toil and sorrow thou shalt eat
+        The bitter bread of poverty.
+      After the burden and the heat,
+        Lo! it is Death who calls for thee.
+
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: (Ornament)]
+
+I
+
+The Tillage of the Soil
+
+
+I had just been looking long and sadly at Holbein’s plowman, and
+was walking through the fields, musing on rustic life and the
+destiny of the husbandman. It is certainly tragic for him to spend
+his days and his strength delving in the jealous earth, that so
+reluctantly yields up her rich treasures when a morsel of coarse
+black bread, at the end of the day’s work, is the sole reward and
+profit to be reaped from such arduous toil. The wealth of the soil,
+the harvests, the fruits, the splendid cattle that grow sleek and
+fat in the luxuriant grass, are the property of the few, and but
+instruments of the drudgery and slavery of the many. The man of
+leisure seldom loves, for their own sake, the fields and meadows,
+the landscape, or the noble animals which are to be converted into
+gold for his use. He comes to the country for his health or for
+change of air, but goes back to town to spend the fruit of his
+vassal’s labor.
+
+On the other hand, the peasant is too abject, too wretched, and too
+fearful of the future to enjoy the beauty of the country and the
+charms of pastoral life. To him, also, the yellow harvest-fields,
+the rich meadows, the fine cattle represent bags of gold; but
+he knows that only an infinitesimal part of their contents,
+insufficient for his daily needs, will ever fall to his share. Yet
+year by year he must fill those accursed bags, to please his master
+and buy the right of living on his land in sordid wretchedness.
+
+Yet nature is eternally young, beautiful, and generous. She pours
+forth poetry and beauty on all creatures and all plants that are
+allowed free development. She owns the secret of happiness, of
+which no one has ever robbed her. The happiest of men would be he
+who, knowing the full meaning of his labor, should, while working
+with his hands, find his happiness and his freedom in the exercise
+of his intelligence, and, having his heart in unison with his
+brain, should at once understand his own work and love that of
+God. The artist has such delights as these in contemplating and
+reproducing the beauties of nature; but if his heart be true and
+tender, his pleasure is disturbed when he sees the miseries of
+the men who people this paradise of earth. True happiness will
+be theirs when mind, heart, and hand shall work in concert in
+the sight of Heaven, and there shall be a sacred harmony between
+God’s goodness and the joys of his creatures. Then, instead of the
+pitiable and frightful figure of Death stalking, whip in hand,
+across the fields, the painter of allegories may place beside the
+peasant a radiant angel, sowing the blessed grain broadcast in the
+smoking furrow.
+
+The dream of a serene, free, poetic, laborious, and simple life
+for the tiller of the soil is not so impossible that we should
+banish it as a chimera. The sweet, sad words of Virgil: “Oh, happy
+the peasants of the field, if they knew their own blessings!” is a
+regret, but, like all regrets, it is also a prophecy. The day will
+come when the laborer too may be an artist, and may at least feel
+what is beautiful, if he cannot express it,--a matter of far less
+importance. Do not we know that this mysterious poetic intuition
+is already his, in the form of instinct and vague reverie? Among
+those peasants who possess some of the comforts of life, and
+whose moral and intellectual development is not entirely stifled
+by extreme wretchedness, pure happiness that can be felt and
+appreciated exists in the elementary stage; and, moreover, since
+poets have already raised their voices out of the lap of pain
+and of weariness, why should we say that the labor of the hands
+excludes the working of the soul? Without doubt this exclusion is
+the common result of excessive toil and of deep misery; but let it
+not be said that when men shall work moderately and usefully there
+will be nothing but bad workers and bad poets. The man who draws
+in noble joy from the poetic feeling is a true poet, though he has
+never written a verse all his life.
+
+My thoughts had flown in this direction, without my perceiving that
+my confidence in the capacity of man for education was strengthened
+by external influences. I was walking along the edge of a field,
+which some peasants were preparing to sow. The space was vast as
+that in Holbein’s picture; the landscape, too, was vast and framed
+in a great sweep of green, slightly reddened by the approach of
+autumn. Here and there in the great russet field, slender rivulets
+of water left in the furrows by the late rains sparkled in the
+sunlight like silver threads. The day was clear and mild, and the
+soil, freshly cleft by the plowshare, sent up a light steam. At the
+other extremity of the field, an old man, whose broad shoulders and
+stern face recalled Holbein’s plowman, but whose clothes carried
+no suggestion of poverty, was gravely driving his plow of antique
+shape, drawn by two placid oxen, true patriarchs of the meadow,
+tall and rather thin, with pale yellow coats and long, drooping
+horns. They were those old workers who, through long habit, have
+grown to be _brothers_, as they are called in our country, and who,
+when one loses the other, refuse to work with a new comrade, and
+pine away with grief. People who are unfamiliar with the country
+call the love of the ox for his yoke-fellow a fable. Let them come
+and see in the corner of the stable one of these poor beasts, thin
+and wasted, restlessly lashing his lean flanks with his tail,
+violently breathing with mingled terror and disdain on the food
+offered him, his eyes always turned toward the door, scratching
+with his hoof the empty place at his side, sniffing the yokes and
+chains which his fellow used to wear, and incessantly calling him
+with melancholy lowings. The ox-herd will say: “There is a pair of
+oxen gone; this one will work no more, for his brother is dead. We
+ought to fatten him for the market, but he will not eat, and will
+soon starve himself to death.”
+
+The old laborer worked slowly, silently, and without waste of
+effort His docile team were in no greater haste than he; but,
+thanks to the undistracted steadiness of his toil and the judicious
+expenditure of his strength, his furrow was as soon plowed as that
+of his son, who was driving, at some distance from him, four less
+vigorous oxen through a more stubborn and stony piece of ground.
+
+My attention was next caught by a fine spectacle, a truly noble
+subject for a painter. At the other end of the field a fine-looking
+youth was driving a magnificent team of four pairs of young oxen,
+through whose somber coats glanced a ruddy, glow-like flame. They
+had the short, curly heads that belong to the wild bull, the same
+large, fierce eyes and jerky movements; they worked in an abrupt,
+nervous way that showed how they still rebelled against the yoke
+and goad, and trembled with anger as they obeyed the authority so
+recently imposed. They were what is called “newly yoked” oxen.
+The man who drove them had to clear a corner of the field that
+had formerly been given up to pasture, and was filled with old
+tree-stumps; and his youth and energy, and his eight half-broken
+animals, hardly sufficed for the Herculean task.
+
+A child of six or seven years old, lovely as an angel, wearing
+round his shoulders, over his blouse, a sheepskin that made him
+look like a little Saint John the Baptist out of a Renaissance
+picture, was running along in the furrow beside the plow, pricking
+the flanks of the oxen with a long, light goad but slightly
+sharpened. The spirited animals quivered under the child’s light
+touch, making their yokes and head-bands creak, and shaking
+the pole violently. Whenever a root stopped the advance of the
+plowshare, the laborer would call every animal by name in his
+powerful voice, trying to calm rather than to excite them; for
+the oxen, irritated by the sudden resistance, bounded, pawed the
+ground with their great cloven hoofs, and would have jumped aside
+and dragged the plow across the fields, if the young man had not
+kept the first four in order with his voice and goad, while the
+child controlled the four others. The little fellow shouted too,
+but the voice which he tried to make of terrible effect, was as
+sweet as his angelic face. The whole scene was beautiful in its
+grace and strength; the landscape, the man, the child, the oxen
+under the yoke; and in spite of the mighty struggle by which the
+earth was subdued, a deep feeling of peace and sweetness reigned
+over all. Each time that an obstacle was surmounted and the plow
+resumed its even, solemn progress, the laborer, whose pretended
+violence was but a trial of his strength, and an outlet for his
+energy, instantly regained that serenity which is the right of
+simple souls, and looked with fatherly pleasure toward his child,
+who turned to smile back at him. Then the young father would raise
+his manly voice in the solemn and melancholy chant that ancient
+tradition transmits, not indeed to all plowmen indiscriminately,
+but to those who are most perfect in the art of exciting and
+sustaining the spirit of cattle while at work. This song, which
+was probably sacred in its origin, and to which mysterious
+influences must once have been attributed, is still thought to
+possess the virtue of putting animals on their mettle, allaying
+their irritation, and of beguiling the weariness of their long,
+hard toil. It is not enough to guide them skilfully, to trace a
+perfectly straight furrow, and to lighten their labor by raising
+the plowshare or driving it into the earth; no man can be a
+consummate husbandman who does not know how to sing to his oxen,
+and that is an art that requires taste and especial gifts.
+
+To tell the truth, this chant is only a recitative, broken off and
+taken up at pleasure. Its irregular form and its intonations that
+violate all the rules of musical art make it impossible to describe.
+
+But it is none the less a noble song, and so appropriate is it to
+the nature of the work it accompanies, to the gait of the oxen, to
+the peace of the fields, and to the simplicity of the men who sing
+it, that no genius unfamiliar with the tillage of the earth, and
+no man except an accomplished laborer of our part of the country,
+could repeat it. At the season of the year when there is no work or
+stir afoot except that of the plowman, this strong, sweet refrain
+rises like the voice of the breeze, to which the key it is sung in
+gives it some resemblance. Each phrase ends with a long trill, the
+final note of which is held with incredible strength of breath, and
+rises a quarter of a tone, sharping systematically. It is barbaric,
+but possesses an unspeakable charm, and anybody, once accustomed to
+hear it, cannot conceive of another song taking its place at the
+same hour and in the same place, without striking a discord.
+
+So it was that I had before my eyes a picture the reverse of that
+of Holbein, although the scene was similar. Instead of a wretched
+old man, a young and active one; instead of a team of weary and
+emaciated horses, four yoke of robust and fiery oxen; instead of
+death, a beautiful child; instead of despair and destruction,
+energy and the possibility of happiness.
+
+Then the old French verse, “À la sueur de ton visaige,” etc., and
+Virgil’s “O fortunatos . . . agricolas,” returned to my mind,
+and seeing this lovely child and his father, under such poetic
+conditions, and with so much grace and strength, accomplish a task
+full of such grand and solemn suggestions, I was conscious of deep
+pity and involuntary respect. Happy the peasant of the fields! Yes,
+and so too should I be in his place, if my arm and voice could
+be endowed with sudden strength, and I could help to make Nature
+fruitful, and sing of her gifts, without ceasing to see with my
+eyes or understand with my brain harmonious colors and sounds,
+delicate shades and graceful outlines; in short, the mysterious
+beauty of all things. And above all, if my heart continued to
+beat in concert with the divine sentiment that presided over the
+immortal sublimity of creation.
+
+But, alas! this man has never understood the mystery of beauty;
+this child will never understand it. God forbid that I should not
+think them superior to the animals which are subject to them, or
+that they have not moments of rapturous insight that soothe their
+toil and lull their cares to sleep. I see the seal of the Lord upon
+their noble brows, for they were born to inherit the earth far more
+truly than those who have bought and paid for it. The proof that
+they feel this is that they cannot be exiled with impunity, that
+they love the soil they have watered with their tears, and that the
+true peasant dies of homesickness under the arms of a soldier far
+from his native field. But he lacks some of my enjoyments, those
+pure delights which should be his by right, as a workman in that
+immense temple which the sky only is vast enough to embrace. He
+lacks the consciousness of his sentiment. Those who condemned him
+to slavery from his mother’s womb, being unable to rob him of his
+vague dreams, took away from him the power of reflection.
+
+Yet, imperfect being that he is, sentenced to eternal childhood, he
+is nobler than the man in whom knowledge has stifled feeling. Do
+not set yourselves above him, you who believe yourselves invested
+with a lawful and inalienable right to rule over him, for your
+terrible mistake shows that your brain has destroyed your heart,
+and that you are the blindest and most incomplete of men! I love
+the simplicity of his soul more than the false lights of yours; and
+if I had to narrate the story of his life, the pleasure I should
+take in bringing out the tender and touching side of it would be
+greater than your merit in painting the degradation and contempt
+into which he is cast by your social code.
+
+I knew the young man and the beautiful child; I knew their history,
+for they had a history. Everybody has his own, and could make the
+romance of his life interesting, if he could but understand it.
+Although but a peasant and a laborer, Germain had always been aware
+of his duties and affections. He had related them to me clearly
+and ingenuously, and I had listened with interest. After some time
+spent in watching him plow, it occurred to me that I might write
+his story, though that story were as simple, as straightforward,
+and unadorned as the furrow he was tracing.
+
+Next year that furrow will be filled and covered by a fresh one.
+Thus disappear most of the footprints made by man in the field of
+human life. A little earth obliterates them, and the furrows we
+have dug succeed one another like graves in a cemetery. Is not the
+furrow of the laborer of as much value as that of the idler, even
+if that idler, by some absurd chance, have made a little noise in
+the world, and left behind him an abiding name?
+
+I mean, if possible, to save from oblivion the furrow of Germain,
+the skilled husbandman. He will never know nor care, but I shall
+take pleasure in my talk.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: (Ornament)]
+
+II
+
+Father Maurice
+
+
+“Germain,” said his father-in-law one day, “you must decide
+about marrying again. It is almost two years now since you lost
+my daughter, and your eldest boy is seven years old! You are
+almost thirty, my boy, and you know that in our country a man is
+considered too old to go to housekeeping again after that age;
+you have three nice children, and thus far they have not proved a
+burden to us at all. My wife and my daughter-in-law have looked
+after them as well as they could, and loved them as they ought.
+Here is Petit-Pierre almost grown up. He goads the oxen very
+well; he knows how to look after the cattle; and he is strong
+enough to drive the horses to the trough. So it is not he that
+worries us. But the other two, love them though we do, God knows
+the poor little innocents give us trouble enough this year; my
+daughter-in-law is about to lie in, and she has yet another baby
+to attend to. When the child we are expecting comes, she will not
+be able to look after your little Solange, and above all your
+Sylvain, who is not four years old, and who is never quiet day or
+night. He has a restless disposition like yours; that will make
+a good workman of him, but it makes a dreadful child, and my old
+wife cannot run fast enough to save him when he almost tumbles
+into the ditch, or when he throws himself in front of the tramping
+cattle. And then with this other that my daughter-in-law is going
+to bring into the world, for a month at least her next older child
+will fall on my wife’s hands. Besides, your children worry us, and
+give us too much to do; we hate to see children badly looked after,
+and when we think of the accidents that may befall them, for want
+of care, we cannot rest. So you need another wife, and I another
+daughter-in-law. Think this over, my son. I have called it to your
+mind before. Time flies, and the years will not wait a moment for
+you. It is your duty to your children and to the rest of us, who
+wish all well at home, to marry as soon as you can.”
+
+“Very well, father,” answered the son-in-law, “if you really wish
+it, I must do as you say. But I do not wish to hide it from you
+that it will make me very sad, and that I hardly wish for anything
+but to drown myself. We know who it is we lose, we never know whom
+we find. I had a good wife, a pretty wife, sweet, brave, good to
+her father and mother, good to her husband, good to her children,
+good to toil in the fields and in the house, well fitted to
+work,--in short, good for everything; and when you had given her to
+me, and I took her, we did not place it among our promises that I
+should go and forget about her if I had the misfortune to lose her.”
+
+“What you say shows your good heart, Germain,” answered Father
+Maurice. “I know that you loved my daughter and that you made her
+happy, and that had you been able to satisfy Death by going in her
+place, Catherine would be alive to-day, and you would be in the
+graveyard. She deserved all your love, and if you are not consoled,
+neither are we. But I do not speak to you of forgetting her: God
+wished her to leave us, and we do not let a day go by without
+telling him in our prayers and thoughts, and words and actions,
+that we keep her memory and still sorrow for her loss. But if she
+could speak to you from the other world, and let you know what she
+wishes, she would tell you to find a mother for her little orphans.
+So the question is to find a woman who will be worthy to take her
+place. It will not be easy, but it is not impossible. And when
+we shall find her for you, you will love her as you used to love
+my daughter, because you are a good man, and because you will be
+thankful to her for helping us and for loving your children.”
+
+“Very well, Father Maurice, I shall do as you wish, as I have
+always done.”
+
+“It is only justice, my son, to say that you have always listened
+to the friendly advice and good judgment of the head of the house.
+So let us consult about your choice of a new wife. First, I don’t
+advise you to take a young girl. That is not what you need. Youth
+is careless, and, as it is hard work to bring up three children,
+especially when they are of another bed, you must have a good soul,
+wise and gentle, and well used to work. If your wife is not about
+the same age as you, she will have no reason to accept such a duty.
+She will find you too old and your children too young. She will be
+complaining, and your children will suffer.”
+
+“This is just what makes me uneasy. Suppose the poor little things
+should be badly treated, hated, beaten?”
+
+“God grant not,” answered the old man. “But bad women are more rare
+with us than good, and we shall be stupid if we cannot pick out
+somebody who will suit us.”
+
+“That is true, father. There are good girls in our village. There
+is Louise, Sylvaine, Claudie, Marguerite--yes, anybody you want.”
+
+“Gently, gently, my boy. All these girls are too young, or too
+poor, or too pretty; for surely we must think of that too, my son.
+A pretty woman is not always as well behaved as another!”
+
+“Then you wish me to take an ugly wife?” said Germain, a little
+uneasy.
+
+“No, not ugly at all, for this woman will bear you other children,
+and there is nothing more miserable than to have children who are
+ugly and weak and sickly. But a woman still fresh and in good
+health, who is neither pretty nor ugly, would suit you exactly.”
+
+“I am quite sure,” said Germain, smiling rather sadly, “that to get
+such a woman as you wish, you must have her made to order. All the
+more because you don’t wish her to be poor, and the rich are not
+easy to get, particularly for a widower.”
+
+“And suppose she were a widow herself, Germain? A widow without
+children and with a good portion?”
+
+“For the moment, I cannot think of anybody like this in our parish.”
+
+“Nor I either. But there are others elsewhere.”
+
+“You have somebody in mind, father. Then tell me, at once, who it
+is.”
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: (Ornament)]
+
+III
+
+Germain, the Skilled Husbandman
+
+
+“Yes, I have somebody in mind,” replied Father Maurice. “It is a
+Leonard, the widow of a Guérin. She lives at Fourche.”
+
+“I know neither the woman nor the place,” answered Germain,
+resigned, but growing more and more melancholy.
+
+“Her name is Catherine, like your dead wife’s.”
+
+“Catherine? Yes, I shall be glad to have to pronounce that name,
+Catherine; and yet if I cannot love one as much as the other, it
+will pain me all the more. It will bring her to my mind more often.”
+
+“I tell you, you will love her. She is a good soul, a woman with
+a warm heart. I have not seen her for a long time. She was not an
+ugly girl then. But she is no longer young. She is thirty-two. She
+comes of a good family, honest people all of them, and for property
+she has eight or ten thousand francs in land which she would sell
+gladly in order to invest in the place where she settles. For
+she, too, is thinking of marrying again, and I know that if your
+character pleases her, she will not be dissatisfied with your
+situation.”
+
+“So you have made all the arrangements?”
+
+“Yes, except that I have not had an opinion from either of you, and
+that is what you must ask each other when you meet. The woman’s
+father is a distant connection of mine, and he has been a good
+friend to me. You know Father Leonard well?”
+
+“Yes, I have seen you two talking at the market, and at the last
+you lunched together. Then it was about her that he spoke to you so
+long?”
+
+“Certainly. He watched you selling your cattle and saw that you
+drove a shrewd bargain, and that you were a good-looking fellow and
+appeared active and intelligent; and when I told him what a good
+fellow you were and how well you have behaved toward us, without
+one word of vexation or anger during the eight years we have been
+living and working together, he took it into his head to marry you
+to his daughter. This suits me, too, I admit, when I think of her
+good reputation and the honesty of her family and the prosperous
+condition I know her affairs are in.”
+
+“I see, Father Maurice, that you have an eye to money.”
+
+“Of course I do; you have, too, have you not?”
+
+“I do look toward it, if you wish, for your sake; but you know
+that, for my own part, I don’t worry whether I gain or not in what
+we make. I don’t understand about profit-sharing; I have no head
+for that sort of thing. I understand the ground; I understand
+cattle, horses, carts, sowing, threshing, and provender. As for
+sheep, and vineyards, and vegetables, petty profits, and fine
+gardening, you know that is your son’s business. I don’t have much
+to do with it. As to money, my memory is short, and I should rather
+give up everything than fight about what is yours and what is mine.
+I should be afraid of making some mistake and claiming what does
+not belong to me, and if business were not so clear and simple I
+should never find my way in it.”
+
+“So much the worse, my son; and this is the reason I wish you to
+have a wife with a clear head to fill my place when I am gone. You
+never wished to understand our accounts, and this might lead you
+into a quarrel with my son, when you don’t have me any longer to
+keep you in harmony and decide what is each one’s share.”
+
+“May you live long, Father Maurice. But do not worry about what
+will happen when you die. I shall never quarrel with your son. I
+trust Jacques as I do you; and as I have no property of my own, and
+all that might accrue to me comes from your daughter and belongs to
+our children, I can rest easy, and you, too. Jacques would never
+rob his sister’s children for the sake of his own, for he loves
+them all equally.”
+
+“You are right, Germain. Jacques is a good son, a good brother,
+and a man who loves the truth. But Jacques may die before you,
+before your children grow up; and in a family we must always
+remember never to leave children without a head to look after them
+and govern their disagreements; otherwise, the lawyer-people mix
+themselves up in it, stir them up to fight, and make them eat up
+everything in law-suits. So we ought not to think of bringing home
+another person, man or woman, without remembering that some day or
+other that person may have to control the behavior and business
+of twenty or thirty children and grandchildren, sons-in-law and
+daughters-in-law. We never know how big a family can grow, and
+when a hive is so full that the bees must form new swarms, each
+one wishes to carry off her share of the honey. When I took you
+for my son, although my daughter was rich and you were poor, I
+never reproached her for choosing you. I saw that you were a hard
+worker, and I knew very well that the best fortune for people in
+such a country as ours is a pair of arms and a heart like yours.
+When a man brings these into a family, he brings enough. But with
+a woman it is different. Her work indoors saves, but it does not
+gain. Besides, now that you are a father, looking for a second
+wife, you must remember that your new children will have no claim
+on the property of your children by another wife; and if you should
+happen to die they might suffer very much--at least, if your wife
+had no money in her own right. And then the children which you
+will add to our colony will cost something to bring up. If that
+fell on us alone, we should surely take care of them without a
+word of complaint; but the comfort of everybody would suffer, and
+your eldest children would bear their share of hardship. When
+families grow too large, if money does not keep pace, misery comes,
+no matter how bravely you bear up. This is what I wished to say,
+Germain; think it over, and try to make the widow Guérin like you;
+for her discretion and her dollars will help us now and make us
+feel easy about the future.”
+
+“That is true, Father. I shall try to please her and to like her.”
+
+“To do that you must go to find her, and see her.”
+
+“At her own place? At Fourche? That is a great way from here, is
+it not? And we scarcely have time to run off at this season of the
+year.”
+
+“When it is a question of a love-match you must make up your mind
+to lose time, but when it is a sensible marriage of two people, who
+take no sudden fancies and know what they want, it is very soon
+decided. To-morrow is Saturday; you will make your day’s work a
+little shorter than usual. You must start after dinner about two
+o’clock. You will be at Fourche by nightfall. The moon rises early.
+The roads are good, and it is not more than three leagues distant.
+It is near Magnier. Besides, you will take the mare.”
+
+“I had just as lief go afoot in this cool weather.”
+
+“Yes, but the mare is pretty, and a suitor looks better when he
+comes well mounted. You must put on your new clothes and carry a
+nice present of game to Father Leonard. You will come from me and
+talk with him, pass all of Sunday with his daughter, and come back
+Monday morning with a yes or no.”
+
+“Very well,” answered Germain calmly, and yet he did not feel very
+calm.
+
+Germain had always lived soberly, as industrious peasants do.
+Married at twenty, he had loved but one woman in his life, and
+after her death, impulsive and gay as his nature was, he had
+never played nor trifled with another. He had borne a real sorrow
+faithfully in his heart, and it was not without misgiving nor
+without sadness that he yielded to his father-in-law; but that
+father had always governed the family wisely, and Germain, entirely
+devoted as he was to the common welfare and so, by consequence, to
+the head of the house, who represented it, could not understand
+that he might have wronged his own good sense and hurt the
+interests of all. Nevertheless, he was sad. Few days went by when
+he did not cry in secret, for his wife, and although loneliness
+began to weigh on him, he was more afraid of entering into a new
+marriage than desirous of finding a support in his sorrow. He had a
+vague idea that love might have consoled him by coming to him of a
+sudden, for this is the only way love can console. We never find it
+when we seek it; it comes over us unawares.
+
+This cold-blooded scheme of marriage that Father Maurice had opened
+to him, this unknown woman he was to take for his bride, perhaps
+even all that had been said to him of her virtue and good sense,
+made him pause to think. And he went away musing as men do whose
+thoughts are too few to divide into hostile factions, not scraping
+up fine arguments for rebellion and selfishness but suffering from
+a dull grief, submissive to ills from which there is no escape.
+
+Meanwhile, Father Maurice had returned to the farm, while Germain,
+between sunset and dark, spent the closing hour of the day in
+repairing gaps the sheep had made in the hedge of a yard near the
+farm-buildings. He lifted up the branches of the thorn-bushes
+and held them in place with clods of earth, whilst the thrushes
+chattered in the neighboring thicket and seemed to call to him to
+hurry, for they were eager to come and see his work as soon as he
+had gone.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: (Ornament)]
+
+IV
+
+Mother Guillette
+
+
+Father Maurice found at his house an old neighbor who had come to
+talk with his wife, seeking at the same time to secure a few embers
+to light her fire. Mother Guillette lived in a wretched hut two
+gunshots away from the farm. Still she was a willing and an orderly
+woman. Her poor dwelling was clean and neat, and the care with
+which her clothes were mended showed that she respected herself in
+the midst of her penury.
+
+“You have come to fetch your evening fire, Mother Guillette,” said
+the old man to her. “Is there anything else you want?”
+
+“No, Father Maurice,” answered she; “nothing for the present. I am
+no beggar, as you know, and I take care not to abuse the kindness
+of my friends.”
+
+“That is very true. Besides, your friends are always ready to do
+you a service.”
+
+“I was just talking to your wife, and I was asking her if Germain
+had finally decided to marry again.”
+
+“You are no gossip,” replied Father Maurice; “we can talk in your
+presence without having any foolish tale-bearing to fear. So I will
+tell my wife and you that Germain has made up his mind absolutely.
+To-morrow morning he starts for the farm at Fourche.”
+
+“Good enough!” cried Mother Maurice; “poor child! God grant he may
+find a woman as good and true as he.”
+
+“So he is going to Fourche?” remarked Mother Guillette; “how lucky
+that is! It is exactly what I want. And since you were just asking
+me if there were anything I wished for, I am going to tell you,
+Father Maurice, how you can do me a service.”
+
+“Tell me what it is; we like to help you.”
+
+“I wish Germain would be so kind as to take my daughter along with
+him.”
+
+“Where? To Fourche?”
+
+“No, not to Fourche, but to Ormeaux. She is to stay there the rest
+of the year.”
+
+“What!” exclaimed Mother Maurice, “are you going to separate from
+your daughter?”
+
+“She must go out to work and earn her living. I am sorry enough,
+and she is too, poor soul. We could not make up our minds to part
+Saint John’s Day, but now that Saint Martin’s is upon us, she
+finds a good place as shepherdess at the farms at Ormeaux. On his
+way home from the fair the other day, the farmer passed by here.
+He caught sight of my little Marie tending her three sheep on the
+common.
+
+“‘You have hardly enough to do, my little girl,’ said he; ‘three
+sheep are not enough for a shepherdess: would you like to take care
+of a hundred? I will take you along. Our shepherdess has fallen
+sick. She is going back to her family, and if you will be at our
+farm before a week is over, you shall have fifty francs for the
+rest of the year up to Saint John’s Day.’
+
+“The child refused, but she could not help thinking it over and
+telling me about it, when she came home in the evening, and found
+me downhearted and worried about the winter, which was sure to be
+hard and long; for this year the cranes and wild ducks were seen
+crossing the sky a whole month before they generally do. We both
+of us cried, but after a time we took heart. We knew that we could
+not stay together, since it is hard enough for one person to get
+a living from our little patch of ground. Then since Marie is old
+enough,--for she is going on to sixteen,--she must do like the
+rest, earn her own living and help her poor mother.”
+
+“Mother Guillette,” said the old laborer, “if it were only fifty
+francs you needed to help you out of your trouble, and save you
+from sending away your daughter, I should certainly find them for
+you, although fifty francs is no trifle for people like us. But in
+everything we must consult common sense as well as friendship. To
+be saved from want this year will not keep you from want in the
+future, and the longer your daughter takes to make up her mind, the
+harder you both will find it to part. Little Marie is growing tall
+and strong. She has not enough at home to keep her busy. She might
+get into lazy habits....”
+
+“Oh, I am not afraid of that!” exclaimed Mother Guillette. “Marie
+is as active as a rich girl at the head of a large family can be.
+She never sits still with her arms folded for an instant, and
+when we have no work to do, she keeps dusting and polishing our
+old furniture until it shines like a mirror. The child is worth
+her weight in gold, and I should much rather have her enter your
+service as a shepherdess than go so far away to people I don’t
+know. You would have taken her at Saint John’s Day; but now you
+have hired all your hands, and we cannot think of that till Saint
+John’s Day next year.”
+
+“Yes, I consent with all my heart, Guillette. I shall be very glad
+to take her. But in the mean time she will do well to learn her
+work, and accustom herself to obey others.”
+
+“Yes, that is true, no doubt. The die is cast. The farmer at
+Ormeaux sent to ask about her this morning; we consented, and she
+must go. But the poor child does not know the way, and I should
+not like to send her so far alone. Since your son-in-law goes to
+Fourche to-morrow, perhaps he can take her. It seems that Fourche
+is close to her journey’s end. At least, so they tell me, for I
+have never made the trip myself.”
+
+“It is very near indeed, and my son will show her the way.
+Naturally, he might even take her up behind him on the mare. That
+will save her shoes. Here he comes for supper. Tell me, Germain,
+Mother Guillette’s little Marie is going to become a shepherdess at
+Ormeaux. Will you take her there on your horse?”
+
+“Certainly,” answered Germain, who, troubled as he was, never felt
+indisposed to do a kindness to his neighbor.
+
+In our community a mother would not think of such a thing as to
+trust a girl of sixteen to a man of twenty-eight. For Germain was
+really but twenty-eight, and although according to the notions
+of the country people he was considered rather old to marry, he
+was still the best-looking man in the neighborhood. Toil had not
+wrinkled and worn him as it does most peasants who have passed ten
+years in tilling the soil. He was strong enough to labor for ten
+more years without showing signs of age, and the prejudices of
+her time must have weighed heavily on the mind of a young girl to
+prevent her from seeing that Germain had a fresh complexion, eyes
+sparkling and blue as skies in May, ruddy lips, fine teeth, and a
+body well shaped and lithe as a young horse that has never yet left
+his pasture.
+
+But purity of manners is a sacred custom in some districts far
+distant from the corrupted life of great cities, and amongst all
+the households of Belair, the family of Maurice was known to be
+honest and truth-loving. Germain was on his way to find a wife.
+Marie was a child, too young and too poor to be thought of in this
+light, and unless he were a heartless and a bad man he could not
+entertain one evil thought concerning her. Father Maurice felt
+no uneasiness at seeing him take the pretty girl on the crupper.
+Mother Guillette would have thought herself doing him a wrong had
+she asked him to respect her daughter as his sister. Marie embraced
+her mother and her young friends twenty times, and then mounted the
+mare in tears. Germain, sad on his own account, felt all the more
+sympathy for her sorrow, and rode away with a melancholy air, while
+all the people of the neighborhood waved good-by to Marie without a
+thought of harm.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: (Ornament)]
+
+V
+
+Petit-Pierre
+
+
+The gray was young, good-looking, and strong. She carried her
+double burden with ease, laying back her ears and champing her
+bit like the high-spirited mare she was. Passing in front of the
+pasture, she caught sight of her mother, whose name was the Old
+Gray as hers was the Young Gray, and she whinnied in token of
+good-by. The Old Gray came nearer the hedge, and striking her shoes
+together she tried to gallop along the edge of the field in order
+to follow her daughter; then seeing her fall into a sharp trot, the
+mare whinnied in her turn and stood in an uneasy attitude, her nose
+in the air and her mouth filled with grass that she had no thought
+of eating.
+
+“That poor beast always knows her offspring,” said Germain, trying
+to keep Marie’s thoughts from her troubles. “That reminds me, I
+never kissed Petit-Pierre before I started. The naughty boy was
+not there. Last night he wished to make me promise to take him
+along, and he wept for an hour in bed. This morning again, he tried
+everything to persuade me. Oh, how sly and coaxing he is! But when
+he saw that he could not gain his point, the young gentleman got
+into a temper. He went off to the fields, and I have not seen him
+all day.”
+
+“I have seen him,” said little Marie, striving to keep back her
+tears; “he was running toward the clearing with Soulas’ children,
+and I felt sure that he had been away from home a long time, for
+he was hungry and was eating wild plums and blackberries. I gave
+him the bread I had for lunch, and he said, ‘Thank you, dear Marie;
+when you come to our house, I will give you some cake.’ He is a
+dear little child, Germain.”
+
+“Yes, he is,” answered the laborer; “and there is nothing I would
+not do for him. If his grandmother had not more sense than I, I
+could not have helped taking him with me, when I saw him crying as
+though his poor little heart would burst.”
+
+“Then why did you not take him, Germain? He would have been very
+little trouble. He is so good when you please him.”
+
+“He would probably have been in the way in the place where I am
+going. At least Father Maurice thought so. On the other hand, I
+should have thought it well to see how they received him. For no
+one could help being kind to such a nice child. But at home they
+said that I must not begin by showing off all the cares of the
+household. I don’t know why I speak of this to you, little Marie;
+you can’t understand.”
+
+“Oh, yes, I do; I know that you are going away to marry; my mother
+spoke to me about it, and told me not to mention it to a soul,
+either at home or at my destination, and you need not be afraid; I
+shall not breathe a word about it.”
+
+“You are very right. For the deed isn’t done yet. Perhaps I shall
+not suit this woman.”
+
+“I hope you will, Germain; why should you not suit her?”
+
+“Who knows? I have three children, and that is a heavy burden for a
+woman who is not their mother.”
+
+“Very true. But are not your children like other children?”
+
+“Do you think so?”
+
+“They are lovely as little angels, and so well brought up that you
+can’t find better children.”
+
+“There’s Sylvain. He is none too obedient.”
+
+“He is so very little. He can’t help being naughty. But he is very
+bright.”
+
+“He is bright it is true, and very brave. He is not afraid of cows
+nor bulls, and if he were given his own way, he would be climbing
+on horseback already with his elder brother.”
+
+“Had I been in your place, I would have taken the eldest boy along.
+Surely people would have liked you at once for having such a pretty
+child.”
+
+“Yes, if a woman is fond of children. But if she is not.”
+
+“Are there women who don’t love children?”
+
+“Not many, I think, but still there are some, and that is what
+troubles me.”
+
+“You don’t know this woman at all, then?”
+
+“No more than you, and I fear that I shall not know her better
+after I have seen her. I am not suspicious. When people say nice
+things to me, I believe them, but more than once I have had good
+reason to repent, for words are not deeds.”
+
+“They say that she is a very good woman.”
+
+“Who says so? Father Maurice?”
+
+“Yes, your father-in-law.”
+
+“That is all very well. But he knows her no more than I.”
+
+“Well, you will soon see. Pay close attention, and let us hope that
+you will not be deceived.”
+
+“I have it. Little Marie, I should be very much obliged if you
+would come into the house for a minute before you go straight on
+to Ormeaux. You are quick-witted; you have always shown that you
+are not stupid, and nothing escapes your notice. Should you see
+anything to rouse your suspicions, you must warn me of it very
+quietly.”
+
+“Oh! no, Germain, I will not do that; I should be too much afraid
+of making a mistake; and, besides, if a word lightly spoken were to
+turn you against this marriage, your family would bear me a grudge,
+and I have plenty of troubles now without bringing any more on my
+poor dear mother.”
+
+As they were talking thus, the gray pricked up her ears and shied;
+then returning on her steps, she approached the bushes, where she
+began to recognize something which had frightened her at first.
+Germain cast his eye over the thicket, and in a ditch, beneath the
+branches of a scrub-oak, still thick and green, he saw something
+which he took for a lamb.
+
+“The little creature is strayed or dead, for it does not move.
+Perhaps some one is looking for it; we must see.”
+
+“It is not an animal,” cried little Marie; “it is a sleeping child.
+It is your Petit-Pierre.”
+
+“Heavens!” exclaimed Germain; “see the little scamp asleep so far
+away from home, and in a ditch where a snake might bite him!”
+
+He lifted up the child, who smiled as he opened his eyes and threw
+his arms about his father’s neck, saying: “Dear little father, you
+are going to take me with you.”
+
+“Oh, yes; always the same tune. What were you doing there, you
+naughty Pierre?”
+
+“I was waiting for my little father to go by. I was watching the
+road, and I watched so hard that I fell asleep.”
+
+“And if I had passed by without seeing you, you would have been out
+of doors all night, and a wolf would have eaten you up.”
+
+“Oh, I knew very well that you would see me,” answered
+Petit-Pierre, confidently.
+
+“Well, kiss me now, bid me good-by, and run back quickly to the
+house, unless you wish them to have supper without you.”
+
+“Are you not going to take me, then?” cried the little boy,
+beginning to rub his eyes to show that he was thinking of tears.
+
+“You know very well that grandpapa and grandmama do not wish it,”
+said Germain, fortifying himself behind the authority of his
+elders, like a man who distrusts his own.
+
+The child would not listen. He began to cry with all his might,
+saying that as long as his father was taking little Marie, he might
+just as well take him too. They replied that they must pass through
+great woods filled with wicked beasts who eat up little children.
+The gray would not carry three people; she had said so when they
+were starting, and in the country where they were going there was
+no bed and no supper for little boys. All these good reasons could
+not persuade Petit-Pierre; he threw himself on the ground, and
+rolled about, shrieking that his little father did not love him any
+more, and that if he did not take him he would never go back to the
+house at all, day or night.
+
+Germain had a father’s heart, as soft and weak as a woman’s. His
+wife’s death, and the care which he had been obliged to bestow
+all alone on his little ones, as well as the thought that these
+poor motherless children needed a great deal of love, combined to
+make him thus. So such a sharp struggle went on within him, all
+the more because he was ashamed of his weakness and tried to hide
+his confusion from little Marie, that the sweat started out on his
+forehead, and his eyes grew red and almost ready to weep. At last
+he tried to get angry, but as he turned toward little Marie in
+order to let her witness his strength of mind, he saw that the good
+girls face was wet with tears; all his courage forsook him and he
+could not keep back his own, scold and threaten as he would.
+
+“Truly your heart is too hard,” said little Marie at last, “and for
+myself I know that I never could refuse a child who felt so badly.
+Come, Germain, let’s take him. Your mare is well used to carrying
+two people and a child, for you know that your brother-in-law and
+his wife, who is much heavier than I, go to market every Saturday
+with their boy on this good beast’s back. Take him on the horse in
+front of you. Besides, I should rather walk on foot all alone than
+give this little boy so much pain.”
+
+“Never mind,” answered Germain, who was dying to allow himself to
+give way. “The gray is strong, and could carry two more if there
+were room on her back. But what can we do with this child on the
+way? He will be cold and hungry, and who will take care of him
+to-night and to-morrow, put him to bed, wash him, and dress him?
+I don’t dare give this trouble to a woman I don’t know, who will
+think, doubtless, that I am exceedingly free and easy with her to
+begin with.”
+
+“Trust me, Germain, you will know her at once by the kindness or
+the impatience that she shows. If she does not care to receive your
+Pierre, I will take charge of him myself. I will go to her house
+and dress him, and I will take him to the fields with me to-morrow.
+I will amuse him all day long, and take good care that he does not
+want for anything.”
+
+“He will tire you, my poor girl, and give you trouble. A whole day
+is a long time.”
+
+“Not at all; it will give me pleasure; he will keep me company, and
+that will make me less sad the first day that I must pass in a new
+place. I shall fancy that I am still at home.”
+
+Seeing that little Marie was pleading for her, the child seized
+upon her skirt and held it so tight that they must have hurt him
+in order to tear it away. When he perceived that his father was
+weakening, he took Marie’s hand in both his tiny sunburned fists
+and kissed her, leaping for joy, and pulling her toward the mare
+with the burning impatience children feel in their desires.
+
+“Come along,” said the young girl, lifting him in her arms; “let us
+try to quiet his poor little heart. It is fluttering like a little
+bird; and if you feel the cold when night comes on, tell me, my
+Pierre, and I will wrap you in my cape. Kiss your little father,
+and beg his pardon for being naughty. Tell him that you will never,
+never be so again. Do you hear?”
+
+“Yes, yes, provided that I always do just as he wishes. Isn’t
+it so?” said Germain, drying the little boy’s eyes with his
+handkerchief. “Marie, you are spoiling the little rascal. But
+really and truly, you are too good, little Marie. I don’t know why
+you did not come to us as shepherdess last Saint John’s Day. You
+would have taken care of my children, and I should much rather
+pay a good price for their sake than try to find a woman who will
+think, perhaps, she is doing me a great kindness if she does not
+detest them.”
+
+“You must not look on the dark side of things,” answered little
+Marie, holding the horse’s bridle while Germain placed his son in
+front of the big pack-saddle covered with goatskin. “If your wife
+does not care for children, take me into your service next year,
+and you may be sure I shall amuse them so well that they will not
+notice anything.”
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: (Ornament)]
+
+VI
+
+On the Heath
+
+
+“Dear me,” said Germain, after they had gone a few steps farther,
+“what will they think at home when they miss the little man? The
+family will be worried, and will be looking everywhere for him.”
+
+“You can tell the man who is mending the road up there that you are
+taking him along, and ask him to speak to your people.”
+
+“That is very true, Marie; you don’t forget anything. It never
+occurred to me that Jeannie must be there.”
+
+“He lives close to the farm, and he will not fail to do your
+errand.”
+
+When they had taken this precaution, Germain put the mare to a
+trot, and Petit-Pierre was so overjoyed that for a time he forgot
+that he had gone without his dinner; but the motion of the horse
+gave him a hollow feeling in his stomach, and at the end of a
+league, he began to gape and grow pale, and confessed that he was
+dying of hunger.
+
+“This is the way it begins,” exclaimed Germain. “I was quite sure
+that we should not go far without this young gentleman crying with
+hunger or thirst.”
+
+“I am thirsty, too!” said Petit-Pierre.
+
+“Very well, then, let’s go to Mother Rebec’s tavern at Corlay, the
+sign of ‘The Dawn’--a pretty sign, but a poor lodging. You will
+take something to drink, too, will you not, Marie?”
+
+“No, no; I don’t want anything. I will hold the mare while you go
+in with the child.”
+
+“But I remember, my good girl, that this morning you gave the bread
+from your own breakfast to my Pierre. You have had nothing to eat.
+You would not take dinner with us at home; you would do nothing but
+cry.”
+
+“Oh, I was not hungry; I felt too sad, and I give you my word that
+even now I have no desire to eat.”
+
+“You must oblige yourself to eat, little girl, else you will fall
+sick. We have a long way to go, and it will not do to arrive
+half-starved and beg for bread before we say how d’ ye do. I shall
+set you a good example myself, although I am not very hungry: and
+I am sure that I can, for, after all, I did not eat any dinner. I
+saw you crying, you and your mother, and it made me feel sad. Come
+along. I am going to tie the gray at the door. Get down; I wish you
+to.”
+
+All three entered the inn, and in less than fifteen minutes the
+fat, lame hostess was able to place before them a nice-looking
+omelette, some brown bread, and a bottle of light wine.
+
+Peasants do not eat quickly, and little Pierre had such a good
+appetite that a whole hour passed before Germain could think of
+starting out again. At first little Marie ate in order to be
+obliging; then little by little she grew hungry. For, at sixteen, a
+girl cannot fast for long, and country air is dictatorial.
+
+The kind words with which Germain knew how to comfort her and
+strengthen her courage, produced their effect. She tried hard to
+persuade herself that seven months would soon be over, and to think
+of the pleasure in store for her when she saw once more her family
+and her hamlet; for Father Maurice and Germain had both promised to
+take her into their service. But just as she began to cheer up and
+play with little Pierre, Germain was so unfortunate as to point out
+to her from the inn window the lovely view of the valley which can
+all be seen from this height, and which looks so happy and green
+and fertile.
+
+Marie looked and asked if the houses of Belair were in sight.
+
+“No doubt,” said Germain, “and the farm, too, and even your
+house--see! that tiny gray spot not far from Godard’s big poplar,
+below the belfry.”
+
+“Ah, I see it,” said the little girl; and then she began to cry.
+
+“I ought not to have made you think of it,” said Germain. “I can do
+nothing but stupid things to-day. Come along, Marie; let’s start,
+and in an hour, when the moon rises, it will not be hot.”
+
+They resumed their journey across the great heath, and for fear of
+tiring the young girl and the child by too rapid a trot, Germain
+did not make the gray go very fast. The sun had set when they left
+the road to enter the wood.
+
+Germain knew the way as far as Magnier, but he thought it would be
+shorter to avoid the Chantaloube road and descend by Presles and La
+Sépulture, a route he was not in the habit of taking on his way to
+the fair. He lost his way, and wasted more time before he reached
+the wood. Even then he did not enter it on the right side, although
+he did not perceive his mistake, so that he turned his back on
+Fourche, and took a direction higher up on the way to Ardente.
+
+He was prevented still further from finding his way by a thick
+mist which rose as the night fell; one of those mists which come
+on autumn evenings when the whiteness of the moonlight renders
+them more undefined and more treacherous. The great pools of water
+scattered through the glades gave forth a vapor so dense that when
+the gray crossed them, their presence was known only by a splashing
+noise, and the difficulty with which she drew her feet from the mud.
+
+At last they found a good straight road, and when they came to the
+end of it, and Germain tried to discover where he was, he saw that
+he was lost. For Father Maurice had told him, when he explained
+the way, that on leaving the wood he must descend a very steep
+hillside, cross a wide meadow, and ford the river twice. He had
+even warned him to cross this river carefully; for, early in the
+season, there had been great rains, and the water might still
+be higher than usual. Seeing neither hillside nor meadows, nor
+river, but a heath, level and white as a mantle of snow, Germain
+stopped, looked about for a house, and waited for a passer-by,
+but could find nothing to set him right. Then he retraced his
+steps and reentered the wood. But the mist thickened yet more,
+the moon was completely hidden, the roads were execrable, and the
+quagmires deep. Twice the gray almost fell. Her heavy load made
+her lose courage, and although she kept enough sagacity to avoid
+the tree-trunks, she could not prevent her riders from striking
+the great branches which overhung the road at the height of their
+heads and caused them great danger. In one of these collisions
+Germain lost his hat, and only recovered it after much difficulty.
+Petit-Pierre had fallen asleep, and, lying like a log in his
+father’s arms, hampered him so that he could no longer hold up nor
+direct the horse.
+
+“I believe we are bewitched,” exclaimed Germain, stopping; “for the
+wood is not large enough to get lost in, if a man is not drunk,
+and here we have been turning round and round for two hours at
+least, without finding a way out. The gray has but one idea in her
+head, and that is to get home. It is she who is deceiving me. If we
+wish to go home, we have only to give her the bit. But when we are
+perhaps but two steps from our journey’s end, it would be foolish
+to give up and return such a long road; and yet I am at a loss what
+to do. I can’t see sky or earth, and I am afraid that the child
+will catch the fever if we remain in this cursed fog, or that he
+will be crushed beneath our weight if the horse falls forward.”
+
+“We must not persist longer,” said little Marie. “Let’s dismount,
+Germain. Give me the child; I can carry him perfectly well, and I
+know better than you how to keep the cloak from falling open and
+leaving him exposed. You lead the mare by her bridle. Perhaps we
+shall see more clearly when we are nearer the ground.”
+
+This precaution was of service only in saving them from a fall, for
+the fog hung low and seemed to stick to the damp earth.
+
+Their advance was painfully slow, and they were soon so weary that
+they halted when they reached a dry spot beneath the great oaks.
+
+Little Marie was in a violent sweat, but she uttered not a word of
+complaint, nor did she worry about anything. Thinking only of the
+child, she sat down on the sand and laid it upon her knees, while
+Germain explored the neighborhood, after having fastened the gray’s
+reins to the branch of a tree.
+
+But the gray was very dissatisfied with the journey. She reared
+suddenly, broke the reins loose, burst her girths, and giving,
+by way of receipt, half a dozen kicks higher than her head, she
+started across the clearing, showing very plainly that she needed
+no one to show her the way home.
+
+“Well, here we are afoot,” said Germain, after a vain attempt to
+catch the horse, “and it would do us no good now if we were on the
+good road, for we should have to ford the river on foot, and since
+these paths are filled with water, we may be sure that the meadow
+is wholly submerged. We don’t know the other routes. We must wait
+until this fog clears. It can’t last more than an hour or two; as
+soon as we can see clearly, we shall look about for a house, the
+first we come to near the edge of the wood. But for the present
+we can’t stir from here. There is a ditch and a pond over there.
+Heaven knows what is in front of us, and what is behind us is more
+than I can say now, for I have forgotten which way we came.”
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: (Ornament)]
+
+VII
+
+Underneath the Big Oaks
+
+
+“Well, we must be patient, Germain,” said little Marie. “We are
+not badly off on this little hillock. The rain does not pierce the
+leaves of these big oaks, and we can light a fire, for I can feel
+old stumps which stir readily and are dry enough to burn. You have
+a light, Germain, have you not? You were smoking your pipe a few
+minutes ago.”
+
+“I did have; my tinderbox was in my bag on the saddle with the game
+that I was bringing to my bride that is to be, but that devilish
+mare has run away with everything, even with my cloak, which she
+will lose and tear to bits on every branch she comes to.”
+
+“No, no, Germain; saddle and cloak and bag are all there on the
+ground at your feet. The gray burst her girths, and threw off
+everything as she ran away.”
+
+“That’s true, thank God,” exclaimed the laborer; “if we can
+grope about and find a little dead wood, we shall be able to dry
+ourselves and get warm.”
+
+“That’s not difficult,” said little Marie; “dead wood always
+cracks when you step on it. But will you give me the saddle?”
+
+“What do you want of it?”
+
+“To make a bed for the child. No, not that way. Upside down. He
+will not roll off into the hollow, and it is still very warm from
+the horse’s back. Prop it up all around with the stones that you
+see there.”
+
+“I can’t see a stone; you must have cat’s eyes.”
+
+“There, it is all done, Germain. Hand me your cloak so that you can
+wrap up his little feet, and throw my cape over his body. Just see
+if he is not as comfortable as though he were in his own bed, and
+feel how warm he is.”
+
+“You certainly know how to take care of children, Marie.”
+
+“I need not be a witch to do that; now get your tinderbox from your
+bag, and I will arrange the wood.”
+
+“This wood will never catch fire; it is too damp.”
+
+“You are always doubting, Germain. Don’t you remember when you were
+a shepherd, and made big fires in the fields right in the midst of
+the rain?”
+
+“Yes, that is a knack that belongs to children who take care of
+sheep; but I was made to drive the oxen as soon as I could walk.”
+
+“That is what has made your arms strong and your hands quick! Here,
+the fire is built; you shall see whether it does not burn. Give me
+the light and a handful of dry ferns. That is all right. Now blow;
+you are not consumptive, are you?”
+
+“Not that I know of,” said Germain, blowing like a smith’s bellows.
+In an instant the flame leaped up, and throwing out a red glare,
+it rose finally in pale blue jets under the oak branches, battling
+with the fog, and gradually drying the atmosphere for ten feet
+around.
+
+“Now I am going to sit by the child, so that the sparks may not
+fall on him,” said the young girl. “Pile on the wood and stir up
+the fire, Germain; we shall not catch cold nor fever here, I will
+answer for it.”
+
+“Upon my word, you are a clever girl,” said Germain; “and you know
+how to make a fire like a little fairy of the night. I feel quite
+revived, and my courage has come back again; for with my legs
+drenched up to the knees, and with the thought of staying this way
+till daylight, I was in a very bad temper just now.”
+
+“And when people are in a bad temper they don’t think of anything,”
+answered little Marie.
+
+“And are you never bad-tempered?”
+
+“No, never; what is the good of it?”
+
+“Oh, of course, there is no good; but how can you help it when you
+have troubles? Yet Heaven knows that you have not lacked them, my
+little girl; for you have not always been happy.”
+
+“It is true that my mother and I have suffered. We have had
+sorrows, but we have never lost heart.”
+
+“I should never lose heart, no matter how hard my work was,” said
+Germain, “but poverty would make me very sad; for I have never
+wanted for anything. My wife made me rich, and I am rich still; I
+shall be so as long as I work on the farm; and that will be always,
+I hope. But everybody must suffer his share! I have suffered in
+another way.”
+
+“Yes; you have lost your wife. That is very sad.”
+
+“Isn’t it?”
+
+“Oh! Germain, I have wept for her many a time. She was so very
+kind! But don’t let us talk about her longer, for I shall burst out
+crying. All my troubles are ready to come back to me to-day.”
+
+“It is true, she loved you dearly, little Marie. She used to make a
+great deal of you and your mother. Are you crying? Come, my girl, I
+don’t want to cry....”
+
+“But you are crying, Germain! You are crying as hard as I. Why
+should a man be ashamed to weep for his wife? Don’t let me trouble
+you. That sorrow is mine as well as yours.”
+
+“You have a kind heart, Marie, and it does me good to weep with
+you. Put your feet nearer the fire; your skirts are all soaked,
+too, poor little girl. I am going to take your place by the boy.
+You move nearer the fire.”
+
+“I am hot enough,” said Marie; “and if you wish to sit down, take a
+corner of the cloak. I am perfectly comfortable.”
+
+“The truth is that it is not so bad here,” said Germain, as he sat
+down beside her. “Only I feel very hungry again. It is almost nine
+o’clock, and I have had such hard work in walking over these vile
+roads that I feel quite tired out. Are you not hungry, too, little
+Marie?”
+
+“I?--not at all. I am not accustomed like you to four meals a day,
+and I have been to bed so often without my supper that once more
+does not trouble me.”
+
+“A woman like you is very convenient; she costs nothing,” said
+Germain, smiling.
+
+“I am not a woman,” exclaimed Marie, naïvely, without perceiving
+the direction the husbandman’s ideas had taken. “Are you dreaming?”
+
+“Yes, I believe I must be dreaming,” answered Germain. “Perhaps
+hunger is making my mind wander.”
+
+“How greedy you are,” answered she, brightening in her turn. “Well,
+if you can’t live five or six hours without eating, have you not
+game in your bag and fire to cook it?”
+
+“By Jove, that’s a good idea! But how about the present to my
+future father-in-law?”
+
+“You have six partridges and a hare! I suppose you do not need all
+of them to satisfy your appetite.”
+
+“But how can we cook them without a spit or andirons. They will be
+burned to a cinder!”
+
+“Not at all,” said little Marie; “I warrant that I can cook them
+for you under the cinders without a taste of smoke. Have you never
+caught larks in the fields, and cooked them between two stones?
+Oh! that is true--I keep forgetting that you have never been a
+shepherd. Come, pluck the partridge. Not so hard! You will tear the
+skin.”
+
+“You might be plucking the other to show me how!”
+
+“Then you wish to eat two? What an ogre you are! They are all
+plucked. I am going to cook them.”
+
+“You would make a perfect little sutler’s girl, Marie, but
+unhappily you have no canteen, and I shall have to drink water from
+this pool!”
+
+“You would like some wine, would you not? Possibly you might prefer
+coffee. You imagine yourself under the trees at the fair. Call out
+the host. Some wine for the good husbandman of Belair!”
+
+“You little witch, you are making fun of me! Would not you drink
+some wine if you had it?”
+
+“I? At Mother Rebec’s, with you to-night, I drank some for the
+second time in my life. But if you are very good, I shall give you
+a bottle almost full, and excellent too.”
+
+“What? Marie, I verily believe you are a witch!”
+
+“Were you not foolish enough to ask for two bottles of wine at the
+inn? You and your boy drank one, and the other you set before me. I
+hardly drank three drops, yet you paid for both without looking.”
+
+“What then?”
+
+“Why, I put the full one in my basket, because I thought that you
+or your child would be thirsty on the journey. And here it is.”
+
+“You are the most thoughtful girl I have ever met. Although the
+poor child was crying when we left the inn, that did not prevent
+her from thinking of others more than of herself. Little Marie, the
+man who marries you will be no fool.”
+
+“I hope not, for I am not fond of fools. Come, eat up your
+partridges; they are done to a turn; and for want of bread, you
+must be satisfied with chestnuts.”
+
+“Where the deuce did you find chestnuts, too?”
+
+“It is extraordinary! All along the road I picked them off the
+branches as we went along, and filled my pockets.”
+
+“And are they cooked, too?”
+
+“Where would my wits have been had I not had sense enough to put
+the chestnuts in the fire as soon as it was lighted? That is the
+way we always do in the fields.”
+
+“So we are going to take supper together, little Marie. I want to
+drink your health and wish you a good husband, just the sort of a
+man that will suit you. Tell me what kind you want.”
+
+“I should find that very difficult, Germain, for I have not thought
+about it yet.”
+
+“What, not at all? Never?” said Germain, as he began to eat with a
+laborer’s appetite, yet stopping to cut off the more tender morsels
+for his companion, who persisted in refusing them and contented
+herself with a few chestnuts.
+
+“Tell me, little Marie,” he went on, seeing that she had no
+intention of answering him, “have you never thought of marrying?
+Yet you are old enough?”
+
+“Perhaps,” she said, “but I am too poor. I need at least a hundred
+crowns to marry, and I must work five or six years to scrape them
+together.”
+
+“Poor girl, I wish Father Maurice were willing to give me a hundred
+crowns to make you a present of.”
+
+“Thank you kindly, Germain. What do you suppose people would say of
+me?”
+
+“What do you wish them to say of you? They know very well that I am
+too old to marry you. They would never believe that I--that you--”
+
+“Look, Germain, your child is waking up,” said little Marie.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: (Ornament)]
+
+VIII
+
+The Evening Prayer
+
+
+Petit-Pierre had raised his head and was looking about him with a
+thoughtful air.
+
+“Oh, that is the way he always does, whenever he hears the sound of
+eating,” said Germain. “The explosion of a cannon would not rouse
+him, but if you work your jaws near him, he opens his eyes at once.”
+
+“You must have been just like him at his age,” said little Marie,
+with a sly smile. “See! my Petit-Pierre, you are looking for your
+canopy. To-night it is made all of green, my child; but your father
+eats his supper none the less. Do you wish to sup with him? I have
+not eaten your share; I thought that you might claim it.”
+
+“Marie, I wish you to eat,” cried the husbandman; “I shall not
+touch another morsel. I am a greedy glutton. You are depriving
+yourself for our sake. It is not fair. I am ashamed. It takes away
+all my appetite. I will not have my son eat his supper unless you
+take some too.”
+
+“Leave us alone,” said little Marie; “you have not the key to our
+appetites. Mine is tight shut to-day, but your Pierre’s is as wide
+open as a little wolf’s. Just see how he seizes his food. He will
+be a strong workman too, some day!”
+
+In truth, Petit-Pierre showed very soon whose son he was, and
+though scarcely awake and wholly at a loss to know where he was and
+how he had come there, he began to eat ravenously. As soon as his
+hunger was appeased, feeling excited as children do who break loose
+from their wonted habits, he had more wit, more curiosity, and more
+good sense than usual. He made them explain to him where he was,
+and when he found that he was in the midst of a forest, he grew a
+little frightened.
+
+“Are there wicked beasts in this forest?” he demanded of his father.
+
+“No, none at all. Don’t be afraid.”
+
+“Then you told a story when you said that if I went with you into
+the great forest, the wolves would carry me off.”
+
+“Just see this logician,” said Germain, embarrassed.
+
+“He is right,” replied little Marie. “That is what you told him. He
+has a good memory, and has not forgotten. But, little Pierre, you
+must learn that your father never tells a story. We passed through
+the big forest whilst you were sleeping, and now we are in the
+small forest where there are no wicked beasts.”
+
+“Is the little forest very far away from the big one?”
+
+“Far enough; besides, the wolves never go out of the big forest.
+And then, if some of them should come here, your father would kill
+them.”
+
+“And you too, little Marie?”
+
+“Yes, we, too, for you would help also, my Pierre. You are not
+frightened, are you? You would beat them soundly?”
+
+“Yes, indeed, I would,” said the child, proudly, as he struck a
+heroic attitude; “we would kill them.”
+
+“There is nobody like you for talking to children and for making
+them listen to reason,” said Germain to little Marie. “To be sure,
+it is not long ago since you were a small child yourself, and you
+have not forgotten what your mother used to say to you. I believe
+that the younger one is, the better one gets on with children. I am
+very much afraid that a woman of thirty who does not yet know what
+it is to be a mother, would find it hard to prattle to children and
+reason with them.”
+
+“Why, Germain? I don’t know why you have such a bad idea of this
+woman; you will change your mind.”
+
+“The devil take the woman!” exclaimed Germain. “I wish I were going
+away from her forever. What do I want of a wife whom I don’t know?”
+
+“Little father,” said the child, “why is it that you speak so much
+of your wife to-day, since she is dead?”
+
+“Then you have not forgotten your poor, dear mother?”
+
+“No; for I saw her placed in a beautiful box of white wood, and my
+grandmother led me up to her to kiss her and say good-by. She was
+very white and very stiff, and every evening my aunt made me pray
+God that she might go to him in Heaven and be warm. Do you think
+that she is there now?”
+
+“I hope so, my child; but you must always pray. It shows your
+mother that you love her.”
+
+“I am going to say my prayers,” answered the boy. “I forgot them
+to-night. But I can’t say them all alone, for I always forget
+something. Little Marie must help me.”
+
+“Yes, my Pierre, I will help you,” said the young girl. “Come and
+kneel down in my lap.”
+
+The child knelt down on the girl’s skirt. He clasped his little
+hands and began to say his prayers, at first with great care and
+earnestness, for he knew the beginning very well, then slowly
+and with more hesitation, and finally repeating word by word
+after Marie, when he came to that place in his prayer where sleep
+overtook him so invariably that he had never been able to learn the
+end. This time again the effort of close attention and the monotony
+of his own accent produced their wonted effect. He pronounced the
+last syllables with great difficulty, and only after they were
+thrice repeated.
+
+His head grew heavy and fell on Marie’s breast; his hands
+unclasped, divided, and fell open on his knees. By the light of the
+camp-fire, Germain watched his little darling hushed at the heart
+of the young girl, who, as she held him in her arms and warmed his
+fair hair with her sweet breath, had herself fallen into a holy
+reverie, and prayed in quiet for the soul of Catherine.
+
+Germain was touched. He tried to express to little Marie the
+grateful esteem which he felt for her, but he could find no fitting
+words.
+
+He approached her to kiss his son, whom she held close to her
+breast, and he could scarcely raise his lips from little Pierre’s
+brow.
+
+“You kiss too hard,” said Marie, gently pushing away the
+husbandman’s head. “You will wake him. Let me put him back to bed,
+for the boy has left us already for dreams of paradise.”
+
+The child allowed Marie to lay him down, but feeling the goatskin
+on the saddle, he asked if he were on the gray. Then opening his
+big blue eyes, and keeping them fixed on the branches for a minute,
+he seemed to be dreaming, wide-awake as he was, or to be struck
+with an idea which had slipped his mind during the daytime, and
+only assumed a distinct form at the approach of sleep.
+
+“Little father,” said he, “if you wish to give me a new mother, I
+hope it will be little Marie.”
+
+And without waiting for an answer, he closed his eyes and slept.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: (Ornament)]
+
+IX
+
+Despite the Cold
+
+
+Little Marie seemed to give no more heed to the child’s odd words
+than to regard them as a proof of friendship. She wrapped him
+up with care, stirred the fire, and as the fog resting on the
+neighboring pool gave no sign of lifting, she advised Germain to
+lie near the fire and take a nap.
+
+“I see that you are sleepy already,” said she, “for you don’t say a
+word and you gaze into the fire, just as your little boy was doing.”
+
+“It is you who must sleep,” answered the husbandman, “and I will
+take care of both of you, for I have never felt less sleepy than I
+do now. I have fifty things to think of.”
+
+“Fifty is a great many,” said the little girl, with a mocking
+accent. “There are lots of people who would be delighted to have
+one.”
+
+“Well, if I am too stupid to have fifty, I have one, at least,
+which has not left me for the past hour.”
+
+“And I shall tell it to you as well as I told you those you thought
+of before.”
+
+“Yes, do tell me if you know, Marie. Tell me yourself. I shall be
+glad to hear.”
+
+“An hour ago,” she answered, “your idea was to eat--and now it is
+to sleep.”
+
+“Marie, I am only an ox-driver, but, upon my word, you take me for
+an ox. You are very perverse, and it is easy to see that you do not
+care to talk to me, so go to sleep. That will be better than to
+pick flaws in a man who is out of sorts.”
+
+“If you wish to talk, let’s talk,” said the girl, half reclining
+near the child and resting her head against the saddle. “You
+torment yourself, Germain, and you do not show much courage for a
+man. What wouldn’t I say if I didn’t do my best to fight my own
+troubles?”
+
+“Yes, that’s very true, and that’s just what I am thinking of,
+my poor child. You are going to live, away from your friends, in
+a horrid country full of moors and fens, where you will catch the
+autumn fevers. Sheep do not pay well there, and this is always
+discouraging for a shepherdess if she means well. Then you will be
+surrounded by strangers who may not be kind to you and will not
+know how much you are worth. It makes me more sorry than I can tell
+you, and I have a great desire to take you home to your mother
+instead of going on to Fourche.”
+
+“You talk very kindly, but there is no reason for your misgivings,
+my poor Germain. You ought not to lose heart on your friend’s
+account, and instead of showing me the dark side of my lot, you
+should show me the bright side, as you did after lunch at Rebec’s.”
+
+“What can I do? That’s the way it appeared to me then, and now my
+ideas are changed. It is best for you to take a husband.”
+
+“That cannot be, Germain, and as it is out of the question, I think
+no more about it.”
+
+“Yet such a thing might happen. Perhaps if you told me what kind of
+a man you want, I might imagine somebody.”
+
+“Imagining is not finding. For myself, I never imagine, for it does
+no good.”
+
+“You are not looking for a rich man?”
+
+“Certainly not, for I am as poor as Job.”
+
+“But if he were comfortably off, you wouldn’t be sorry to have a
+good house, and good food, and good clothes, and to live with an
+honest family who would allow you to help your mother.”
+
+“Oh, yes indeed! It is my own wish to help my mother.”
+
+“And if this man were to turn up, you would not be too hard to
+please, even if he were not so very young.”
+
+“Ah! There you must excuse me, Germain. That is just the point I
+insist on. I could never love an old man.”
+
+“An old man, of course not; but a man of my age, for example!”
+
+“Your age is too old for me, Germain. I should like Bastien’s age,
+though Bastien is not so good-looking as you.”
+
+“Should you rather have Bastien, the swineherd?” said Germain,
+indignantly. “A fellow with eyes shaped like those of the pigs he
+drives!”
+
+“I could excuse his eyes, because he is eighteen.”
+
+Germain felt terribly jealous.
+
+“Well,” said he, “it’s clear that you want Bastien, but, none the
+less, it’s a queer idea.”
+
+“Yes, that would be a queer idea,” answered little Marie, bursting
+into shouts of laughter, “and he would make a queer husband. You
+could gull him to your heart’s content. For instance, the other
+day, I had picked up a tomato in the curate’s garden. I told him
+that it was a fine, red apple, and he bit into it like a glutton.
+If you had only seen what a face he made. Heavens! how ugly he was!”
+
+“Then you don’t love him, since you are making fun of him.”
+
+“That wouldn’t be a reason. But I don’t like him. He is unkind to
+his little sister, and he is dirty.”
+
+“Don’t you care for anybody else?”
+
+“How does that concern you, Germain?”
+
+“Not at all, except that it gives me something to talk about. I see
+very well, little girl, that you have a sweetheart in your mind
+already.”
+
+“No, Germain, you’re wrong. I have no sweetheart yet. Perhaps one
+may come later, but since I cannot marry until I have something
+laid by, I am destined to marry late in life and with an old man.”
+
+“Then take an old man without delay.”
+
+“No. When I am no longer young, I shall not care; for the present,
+it is different.”
+
+“I see that I displease you, Marie; that’s clear enough,” said
+Germain, impatiently, and without stopping to weigh his words.
+
+Little Marie did not answer. Germain bent over her. She was
+sleeping. She had fallen back, overcome, stricken down, as it were,
+by slumber, as children are who sleep before they cease to babble.
+
+Germain was glad that she had not caught his last words. He felt
+that they were unwise, and he turned his back to distract his
+attention and change his thoughts.
+
+It was all in vain. He could neither sleep nor think of anything
+except the words he had just spoken. He walked about the fire
+twenty times; he moved away; he came back. At last, feeling himself
+tremble as though he had swallowed gunpowder, he leaned against the
+tree which sheltered the two children, and watched them as they
+slept.
+
+“I know not how it is,” thought he; “I have never noticed that
+little Marie is the prettiest girl in the countryside. She has
+not much color, but her little face is fresh as a wild rose. What
+a charming mouth she has, and how pretty her little nose is! She
+is not large for her age, but she is formed like a little quail
+and is as light as a bird. I cannot understand why they made so
+much fuss at home over a big, fat woman with a bright red face.
+My wife was rather slender and pale, and she pleased me more than
+any one else. This girl is very frail, but she is healthy, and
+she is pretty to watch as a white kid. And then she has such a
+gentle, frank expression. You can read her good heart in her eyes
+even though they are closed in sleep. As to wit, I must confess
+she has more than ever my dear Catherine had, and she would never
+become wearisome. She is gay, wise, industrious, loving, and she is
+amusing. I don’t know what more I could wish for....
+
+“But what is the use of thinking of all this?” Germain went on,
+trying to look in another direction. “My father-in-law would not
+hear of it, and all the family would think me mad! Besides, she
+would not have me herself, poor child! She thinks me too old; she
+told me so. She is unselfish, and does not mind poverty and worry,
+wearing old clothes, and suffering from hunger for two or three
+months every year, so long as she can satisfy her heart some day
+and give herself to the man she loves. She is right. I should do
+the same in her place, and even now, if I had my own way, instead
+of marrying a wife whom I don’t care for, I would choose a girl
+after my own heart.”
+
+The more Germain tried to compose himself by reasoning, the further
+he was from succeeding. He walked away a dozen steps, to lose
+himself in the fog; then, all of a sudden, he found himself on his
+knees beside the two sleeping children. Once he wished to kiss
+Petit-Pierre, who had one arm about Marie’s neck, and made such a
+mistake that Marie felt a breath, hot as fire, cross her lips, and
+awaking, looked about her with a bewildered expression, totally
+ignorant of all that was passing within his mind.
+
+“I didn’t see you, my poor children,” said Germain, retreating
+rapidly. “I almost stumbled over you and hurt you.”
+
+Little Marie was so innocent that she believed him, and fell asleep
+again. Germain walked to the opposite side of the fire, and swore
+to God that he would not stir until she had waked. He kept his
+word, but not without a struggle. He thought that he would go mad.
+
+At length, toward midnight, the fog lifted, and Germain could see
+the stars shining through the trees. The moon freed herself from
+the mist which had hidden her, and began to sow her diamonds over
+the damp moss. The trunks of the oak-trees remained in impressive
+darkness, but beyond, the white branches of the birch-trees seemed
+a long line of phantoms in their shrouds. The fire cast its
+reflection in the pool; and the frogs, growing accustomed to the
+light, hazarded a few shrill and uneasy notes; the rugged branches
+of the old trees, bristling with dim-colored lichens, crossed and
+intertwined themselves, like great gaunt arms, above the travelers’
+heads. It was a lovely spot, but so lonely and so sad that Germain,
+unable to endure it more, began to sing and throw stones into the
+water to forget the dread weariness of solitude. He was anxious
+also to wake little Marie, and when he saw her rise and look about
+at the weather, he proposed that they start on their journey.
+
+“In two hours,” said he, “the approach of morning will chill the
+air so that we can’t stay here in spite of our fire. Now we can see
+our way, and we shall soon find a house which will open its doors
+to us, or at least a barn where we can pass the rest of the night
+under shelter.”
+
+Marie had no will of her own, and although she was longing to
+sleep, she made ready to follow Germain. The husbandman took his
+boy in his arms without awaking him, and beckoned Marie to come
+nearer, in order to cover her with his cloak. For she would not
+take her own mantle, which was wrapped about the child.
+
+When he felt the young girl so close to him, Germain, who for a
+time had succeeded in distracting his mind and raising his spirits,
+began to lose his head once more. Two or three times he strode
+ahead abruptly, leaving her to walk alone. Then seeing how hard it
+was for her to follow, he waited, drew her quickly to his side, and
+pressed her so tight that she was surprised, and even angry, though
+she dared not say so.
+
+As they knew not the direction whence they had come, they had no
+idea of that in which they were going. So they crossed the wood
+once more, and found themselves afresh before the lonely moor. Then
+they retraced their steps, and after much turning and twisting they
+spied a light across the branches.
+
+“Good enough! Here’s a house,” exclaimed Germain. “And the people
+are already astir, for the fire is lighted. It must be very late.”
+
+It was no house, but the camp-fire, which they had covered before
+they left, and which had sprung up in the breeze.
+
+They had tramped for two hours, only to find themselves at the very
+place from which they had started.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: (Ornament)]
+
+X
+
+Beneath the Stars
+
+
+“This time I give up,” said Germain, stamping his foot. “We are
+bewitched, that is certain, and we shall not get away from here
+before broad day. The devil is in this place!”
+
+“Well, it’s of no use to get angry,” said Marie. “We must take what
+is given us. Let us make a big fire. The child is so well wrapped
+up that he is in no danger, and we shall not die from a single
+night out of doors. Where have you hidden the saddle, Germain?
+Right in the midst of the holly-bushes,--what a goose you are! It’s
+very convenient to get it from there!”
+
+“Stop, child; hold the boy while I pull his bed from the thorns. I
+didn’t want you to scratch your hands.”
+
+“It’s all done. Here’s the bed, and a few scratches are not
+saber-cuts,” replied the brave girl.
+
+She proceeded to put the child to bed again, and Petit-Pierre was
+so sound asleep this time that he knew nothing of his last journey.
+Germain piled so much wood on the fire that the forest all about
+glowed with the light.
+
+Little Marie had come to the end of her powers, and although she
+did not complain, her legs would support her no longer. She was
+white, and her teeth chattered with cold and weakness. Germain took
+her in his arms to warm her. The uneasiness, the compassion, the
+tenderness of movement he could not repress, took possession of
+his heart and stilled his senses. As by a miracle his tongue was
+loosened, and every feeling of shame vanished.
+
+“Marie,” said he, “I like you, and I am very sorry that you don’t
+like me. If you would take me for your husband, there are no
+fathers, nor family, nor neighbors, nor arguments which could
+prevent me from giving myself to you. I know how happy you would
+make my children, and that you would teach them to love the memory
+of their mother, and with a quiet conscience I could satisfy the
+wishes of my heart. I have always been fond of you, and now I love
+you so well that were you to ask me to spend all my life in doing
+your pleasure, I would swear to do it on the instant. Please think
+how much I love you, and try to forget my age. Think that it is a
+wrong notion to believe that a man of thirty is old. Besides, I
+am but twenty-eight. A young girl is afraid that people will talk
+about her if she takes a man ten or twelve years older than she,
+simply because that is not the custom in our country, but I have
+heard say that in other countries people don’t look at it in this
+light, and that they had rather allow a sensible man of approved
+courage to support a young girl, than trust her to a mere boy, who
+may go astray, and, from the honest fellow they thought him, turn
+into a good-for-nothing. And then years don’t always make age. That
+depends on the health and strength a person has. When a man is used
+up by overwork and poverty, or by a bad life, he is old before
+twenty-five. While I--but Marie, you are not listening....”
+
+“Yes I am, Germain; I hear you perfectly,” answered little Marie,
+“but I am thinking over what my mother used to tell me so often:
+that a woman of sixty is to be pitied greatly when her husband is
+seventy or seventy-five and can no longer work to support her. He
+grows feeble, and it becomes her duty to nurse him at the very age
+when she begins to feel great need of care and rest herself, and so
+it is that the end comes in a garret.”
+
+“Parents do well to say so, I admit,” answered Germain, “but then
+they would sacrifice all their youth, the best years of their
+life, to calculating what will become of them at the age when a
+person is no longer good for anything, and when it is a matter
+of indifference which way death comes. But I am in no danger of
+starving in my old age. I am even going to lay by something, since
+I live with my wife’s parents and spend nothing. And then, you
+see, I shall love you so well that I can never grow old. They say
+that when a man is happy he keeps sound, and I know well that in
+love for you, I am younger than Bastien; for he does not love you;
+he is too stupid, too much of a child to understand how pretty
+and how good you are, and how you were made for people to court.
+Do not hate me, Marie. I am not a bad man. I made my Catherine
+happy, and on her death-bed she swore before God that she had had
+only happiness of me, and she asked me to marry again. Her spirit
+must have spoken to her child to-night. Did you not hear the words
+he said? How his little lips quivered as his eyes stared upward,
+watching something that we could not see! He was surely looking at
+his mother, and it was she who made him say that he wished you to
+take her place.”
+
+“Germain,” answered Marie, amazed and yet thoughtful, “you speak
+frankly, and everything that you say is true. I am sure that I
+should do well to love you if it did not displease your parents
+too much. But what can I do? My heart does not speak for you. I
+am very fond of you, but though your age does not make you ugly,
+it makes me afraid. It seems as if you were some such relation to
+me, as an uncle or a godfather, that I must be respectful toward
+you, and that there might be moments when you would treat me like a
+little girl rather than like your wife and your equal. And perhaps
+my friends would make fun of me, and although it would be silly
+to give heed to that, I think that I should be a little sad on my
+wedding-day.”
+
+“Those are but childish reasons, Marie; you speak like a child.”
+
+“Yes, that is true; I am a child,” said she, “and it is on that
+account I am afraid of too sensible a man. You must see that I am
+too young for you, since you just found fault with me for speaking
+foolishly. I can’t have more sense than my age allows.”
+
+“O Heavens! How unlucky I am to be so clumsy and to express so ill
+what I think!” cried Germain. “Marie, you don’t love me. That is
+the long and short of it. You find me too simple and too dull. If
+you loved me at all, you would not see my faults so clearly. But
+you do not love me. That is the whole story.”
+
+“That is not my fault,” answered she, a little hurt that he was
+speaking with less tenderness. “I am doing my best to hear you, but
+the more I try the less I can get it into my head that we ought to
+be husband and wife.”
+
+Germain did not answer. His head dropped into his hands, and
+little Marie could not tell whether he wept or sulked or was fast
+asleep. She felt uneasy when she saw him so cast down, and could
+not guess what was passing in his mind. But she dared not speak to
+him more, and as she was too astonished at what had passed to have
+any desire to sleep, she waited impatiently for dawn, tending the
+fire with care and watching over the child, whose existence Germain
+appeared to forget. Yet Germain was not asleep. He did not mope
+over his lot. He made no plans to encourage himself, nor schemes to
+entrap the girl. He suffered; he felt a great weight of grief at
+his heart. He wished that he were dead. The world seemed to turn
+against him, and if he could have wept at all, his tears would have
+come in floods. But mingled with his sorrow there was a feeling of
+anger against himself, and he felt choked, without the power or the
+wish to complain.
+
+When morning came, and the sounds of the country brought it to
+Germain’s senses, he lifted his head from his hands and rose. He
+saw that little Marie had slept no more than he, but he knew no
+words in which to tell her of his anxiety. He was very discouraged.
+Hiding the gray’s saddle once more in the thicket, he slung his
+sack over his shoulder and took his son by the hand.
+
+“Now, Marie,” said he, “we are going to try to end our journey. Do
+you wish me to take you to Ormeaux?”
+
+“Let us leave the woods together,” answered she, “and when we know
+where we are, we shall separate, and go our different ways.”
+
+Germain did not answer. He felt hurt that the girl did not ask him
+to take her as far as Ormeaux, and he did not notice that he had
+asked her in a tone well fitted to provoke a refusal.
+
+After a few hundred steps, they met a wood-cutter, who pointed out
+the highroad, and told them that when they had crossed the plain,
+one must turn to the right, the other to the left, to gain their
+different destinations, which were so near together that the houses
+of Fourche were in plain sight from the farm of Ormeaux, and _vice
+versa_.
+
+When they had thanked him and passed on, the wood-cutter called
+them back to ask whether they had not lost a horse.
+
+“Yes,” he said, “I found a pretty gray mare in my yard, where
+perhaps a wolf had driven her to seek refuge; my dogs barked the
+whole night long, and at daybreak I saw the mare under my shed. She
+is there now. Come along with me, and if you recognize her, you may
+take her.”
+
+When Germain had given a description of the gray, and felt
+convinced that it was really she, he started back to find his
+saddle. Little Marie offered to take his child to Ormeaux, whither
+he might go to get him after he had introduced himself at Fourche.
+
+“He is rather dirty after the night that we have passed,” said she.
+“I will brush his clothes, wash his pretty face, and comb his hair,
+and when he looks neat and clean, you can present him to your new
+family.”
+
+“Who told you that I wish to go to Fourche?” answered Germain,
+petulantly. “Perhaps I shall not go.”
+
+“But truly, Germain, it is your duty to go there. You will go
+there,” replied the girl.
+
+“You seem very anxious to have me married off, so that you may be
+quite sure that I shall not trouble you again?”
+
+“Germain, you must not think of that any more. It is an idea which
+came to you in the night, because this unfortunate mishap took away
+your spirits. But now you must come to your senses. I promise you
+to forget everything that you said to me, and not to breathe it to
+a soul.”
+
+“Oh, say what you wish. It is not my custom to deny what I have
+spoken. What I told you was true and honest, and I shall not blush
+for it before anybody.”
+
+“Yes, but if your wife were to know that just before you came you
+were thinking of another woman, it would prejudice her against you.
+So take care how you speak now. Don’t look at me before everybody
+with such a rapt expression. Think of Father Maurice, who relies on
+your obedience, and who would be enraged at me if I were to turn
+you from his will. Good-by, Germain. I take Petit-Pierre in order
+to force you to go to Fourche. He is a pledge which I keep on your
+behalf.”
+
+“So you want to go with her?” said the husbandman to his son,
+seeing that the boy had clasped Marie’s hands and was following her
+resolutely.
+
+“Yes, father,” answered the child, who had heard the conversation
+and understood after his own fashion the words spoken so
+unguardedly before him. “I am going away with my dearest little
+Marie. You shall come to find me when you have done marrying, but I
+wish Marie to be my little mother.”
+
+“You see how much he wishes it,” said Germain to the girl. “Listen
+to me, Petit-Pierre,” he added. “I wish her to be your mother and
+to stay with you always. It is she who does not wish to. Try to
+make her grant you what she has denied me.”
+
+“Don’t be afraid, father, I shall make her say yes. Little Marie
+does everything that I wish.”
+
+He walked away with the young girl. Germain stood alone, sadder and
+more irresolute than ever.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: (Ornament)]
+
+XI
+
+The Belle of the Village
+
+
+And after all, when he had brushed the dust of travel from his
+clothes and from his horse’s harness, when he had mounted the gray,
+and when he had learned the road, he felt that there was no retreat
+and that he must forget that anxious night as though it had been a
+dangerous dream.
+
+He found Father Leonard seated on a trim bench of spinach-green.
+The six stone steps leading up to the door showed that the house
+had a cellar. The walls of the garden and of the hemp-field were
+plastered with lime and sand. It was a handsome house, and might
+almost have been mistaken for the dwelling of a bourgeois.
+
+Germain’s future father-in-law came forward to meet him, and having
+plied him, for five minutes, with questions concerning his entire
+family, he added that conventional phrase with which one passer-by
+addresses another concerning the object of his journey: “So you are
+taking a little trip in this part of the country?”
+
+“I have come to see you,” replied the husbandman, “to give you this
+little present of game with my father’s compliments, and to tell
+you from him that you ought to know with what intentions I come to
+your house.”
+
+“Oh, ho!” said Father Leonard, laughing and tapping his capacious
+stomach, “I see, I understand, I am with you, and,” he added with a
+wink, “you will not be the only one to pay your court, young man.
+There are three already in the house dancing attendance like you.
+I never turn anybody away, and I should find it hard to say yes or
+no to any of them, for they are all good matches. Yet, on account
+of Father Maurice and for the sake of the rich fields you till, I
+hope that it may be you. But my daughter is of age and mistress
+of her own affairs. She will do as she likes. Go in and introduce
+yourself. I hope that you will draw the prize.”
+
+“I beg your pardon,” answered Germain, amazed to find himself an
+extra when he had counted on being alone in the field. “I was not
+aware that your daughter was supplied already with suitors, and I
+did not come to quarrel over her.”
+
+“If you supposed that because you were slow in coming, my daughter
+would be left unprovided for, you were greatly mistaken, my son,”
+replied Father Leonard with unshaken good humor. “Catherine has
+the wherewithal to attract suitors, and her only difficulty lies
+in choosing. But come in; don’t lose heart. The woman is worth a
+struggle.”
+
+And pushing in Germain by the shoulders with boisterous gaiety, he
+called to his daughter as they entered the house:
+
+“So, Catherine, here is another!”
+
+This cordial but unmannerly method of introduction to the widow, in
+the presence of her other devotees, completed Germain’s distress
+and embarrassment. He felt the awkwardness of his position, and
+stood for a few moments without daring to look upon the beauty and
+her court.
+
+The Widow Guérin had a good figure and did not lack freshness, but
+her expression and her dress displeased Germain the instant he saw
+her. She had a bold, self-satisfied look, and her cap, edged with
+three lace flounces, her silk apron, and her fichu of fine black
+lace were little in accord with the staid and sober widow he had
+pictured to himself.
+
+Her elaborate dress and forward manners inclined Germain to judge
+the widow old and ugly, although she was certainly not either. He
+thought that such finery and playful manners might well suit little
+Marie’s years and wit, but that the widow’s fun was labored and
+over bold, and that she wore her fine clothes in bad taste.
+
+The three suitors were seated at a table loaded with wines and
+meats which were spread out for their use throughout the Sunday
+morning; for Father Leonard liked to show off his wealth, and the
+widow was not sorry to display her pretty china and keep a table
+like a rich lady. Germain, simple and unsuspecting as he was,
+watched everything with a penetrating glance, and for the first
+time in his life he kept on the defensive when he drank. Father
+Leonard obliged him to sit down with his rivals, and taking a chair
+opposite he treated him with great politeness, and talked to him
+rather than to the others.
+
+The present of game, despite the breach Germain had made on his
+own account, was still plenteous enough to produce its effect. The
+widow did not look unaware of its presence, and the suitors cast
+disdainful glances in its direction.
+
+Germain felt ill at ease in this company, and did not eat heartily.
+Father Leonard poked fun at him.
+
+“You look very melancholy,” said he, “and you are ill-using your
+glass. You must not allow love to spoil your appetite, for a
+fasting lover can make no such pretty speeches as he whose ideas
+are brightened with a drop of wine.”
+
+Germain was mortified at being thought already in love, and the
+artificial manner of the widow, who kept lowering her eyes with a
+smile as a woman does who is sure of her calculations, made him
+long to protest against his pretended surrender; but fearing to
+appear uncivil, he smiled and held his peace.
+
+He thought the widow’s beaus, three bumpkins. They must have been
+rich for her to admit of their pretensions. One was over forty,
+and fat as Father Leonard; another had lost an eye, and drank like
+a sot. The third was a young fellow, and nice-looking too; but he
+kept insisting on displaying his wit, and would say things so silly
+that they were painful to hear. Yet the widow laughed as though she
+admired all his foolishness, and made small proof of her good taste
+thereby. At first Germain thought her infatuated with him, but soon
+he perceived that he himself was especially encouraged, and that
+they wished him to make fresh advances. For this reason he felt an
+increasing stiffness and severity which he took no pains to conceal.
+
+The time came for mass, and they rose from table to go thither
+in company. It was necessary to walk as far as Mers, a good
+half-league away, and Germain was so tired that he longed to take a
+nap before they went; but he was not in the habit of missing mass,
+and he started with the others.
+
+The roads were filled with people, and the widow marched proudly
+along, escorted by her three suitors, taking an arm, first of one
+and then of another, and carrying her head high with an air of
+importance. She was eager to display the fourth to the eyes of the
+passers-by; but Germain felt so ridiculous to be dragged along in
+the train of a petticoat where all the world might see, that he
+kept at a respectable distance, chatting with Father Leonard, and
+succeeded in occupying his attention so well that they did not look
+at all as if they belonged to the party.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: (Ornament)]
+
+XII
+
+The Master
+
+
+When they reached the village, the widow halted to allow them to
+catch up. She was bent upon making her entry with all her train;
+but Germain, denying her this pleasure, deserted Father Leonard,
+and after conversing with several acquaintances, he entered the
+church by another door. The widow was vexed.
+
+When mass was over, she made her appearance in triumph on the lawn,
+where dancing was going on, and she began her dance with her three
+lovers in turn. Germain watched her and saw that she danced well,
+but with affectation.
+
+“So, you don’t ask my daughter?” said Leonard, tapping him on the
+shoulder. “You are too easily frightened.”
+
+“I have not danced since I lost my wife,” answered the husbandman.
+
+“But now that you are looking for another, mourning’s over in
+heart as well as in clothes.”
+
+“That’s no reason, Father Leonard. Besides, I am too old and I
+don’t care for dancing.”
+
+“Listen,” said Father Leonard, drawing him toward a retired
+corner, “when you entered my house you were vexed to see the place
+already besieged, and I see that you are very proud. But that is
+not reasonable, my boy. My daughter is used to a great deal of
+attention, particularly since she left off her mourning two years
+ago, and it is not her place to lead you on.”
+
+“Has your daughter been thinking of marrying for two years already
+without making her choice?” asked Germain.
+
+“She doesn’t wish to hurry, and she is right. Although she has
+lively manners, and although you may not think that she reflects
+a great deal, she is a woman of excellent common sense, and knows
+very well what she is about.”
+
+“It does not appear to me so,” said Germain ingenuously, “for she
+has three suitors in her train, and if she knew her own mind, there
+are two of them, at least, whom she would find superfluous and
+request to stay at home.”
+
+“Why, Germain, you don’t understand at all. She doesn’t wish the
+old man, nor the blind man, nor the young man, I am quite certain;
+yet if she were to turn them off, people would think that she
+wished to remain a widow, and nobody else would come.”
+
+“Oh, I see. These three are used for a guide-post.”
+
+“As you like. What is the harm if they are satisfied?”
+
+“Every man to his taste,” said Germain.
+
+“I see that yours is different. Now supposing that you are chosen,
+then they would leave the coast clear.”
+
+“Yes, supposing! and meanwhile how much time should I have to
+whistle?”
+
+“That depends on your persuasive tongue, I suppose. Until now, my
+daughter has always thought that she would pass the best part of
+her life while she was being courted, and she is in no hurry to
+become the servant of one man when she can order so many others
+about. So she will please herself as long as the game amuses her;
+but if you please her more than the game, the game will cease. Only
+you must not lose courage. Come back every Sunday, dance with her,
+let her know that you are amongst her followers, and if she finds
+you more agreeable and better bred than the others, some fine day
+she will tell you so, no doubt.”
+
+“Excuse me, Father Leonard. Your daughter has the right to do as
+she pleases, and it is not my business to blame her. If I were in
+her place, I should do differently. I should be more frank, and
+should not waste the time of men who have, doubtless, something
+better to do than dancing attendance on a woman who makes fun of
+them. Still, if that is what amuses her and makes her happy, it is
+no affair of mine. Only there is one thing I must tell you which is
+a little embarrassing, since you have mistaken my intentions from
+the start, for you are so sure of what is not so, that you have
+given me no chance to explain. You must know, then, that I did not
+come here to ask for your daughter in marriage, but merely to buy a
+pair of oxen which you are going to take to market next week, and
+which my father-in-law thinks will suit him.”
+
+“I understand, Germain,” answered Leonard very calmly; “you changed
+your plans when you saw my daughter with her admirers. It is as you
+please. It seems that what attracts some people repels others, and
+you are perfectly welcome to withdraw, for you have not declared
+your intentions. If you wish seriously to buy my cattle, come and
+see them in the pasture, and whether we make a bargain or not, you
+will come back to dinner with us before you return.”
+
+“I don’t wish to trouble you,” answered Germain. “Perhaps you have
+something to do here. I myself am tired of watching the dancing and
+standing idle. I will go to see your cattle, and I will soon join
+you at your house.”
+
+Then Germain made his escape, and walked away toward the meadows
+where Leonard had pointed out to him some of his cattle. It was
+true that Father Maurice intended to buy, and Germain thought that
+if he were to bring home a fine pair of oxen at a reasonable price,
+he might more easily receive a pardon for wilfully relinquishing
+the purpose of his journey. He walked rapidly, and soon found
+himself at some distance from Ormeaux. Then of a sudden, he felt a
+desire to kiss his son and to see little Marie once again, although
+he had lost all hope and even had chased away the thought that he
+might some day owe his happiness to her. Everything that he had
+heard and seen: this woman, flirtatious and vain; this father, at
+once shrewd and short-sighted, encouraging his daughter in habits
+of pride and untruth; this city luxury, which seemed to him a
+transgression against the dignity of country manners; this time
+wasted in foolish, empty words; this home so different from his
+own; and above all, that deep uneasiness which comes to a laborer
+of the fields when he leaves his accustomed toil: all the trouble
+and annoyance of the past few hours made Germain long to be with
+his child and with his little neighbor. Even had he not been in
+love, he would have sought her to divert his mind and raise his
+spirits to their wonted level.
+
+But he looked in vain over the neighboring meadows. He saw neither
+little Marie nor little Pierre, and yet it was the hour when
+shepherds are in the fields. There was a large flock in a pasture.
+He asked of a young boy who tended them whether the sheep belonged
+to the farm of Ormeaux.
+
+“Yes,” said the child.
+
+“Are you the shepherd? Do boys tend the flocks of the farm, amongst
+you?”
+
+“No, I am taking care of them to-day, because the shepherdess went
+away. She was ill.”
+
+“But have you not a new shepherdess, who came this morning?”
+
+“Yes, surely; but she, too, has gone already.”
+
+“What! gone? Did she not have a child with her?”
+
+“Yes, a little boy who cried. They both went away after they had
+been here two hours.”
+
+“Went away! Where?”
+
+“Where they came from, I suppose. I didn’t ask them.”
+
+“But why did they go away?” asked Germain, growing more and more
+uneasy.
+
+“How the deuce do I know?”
+
+“Did they not agree about wages? Yet that must have been settled
+before.”
+
+“I can tell you nothing about it. I saw them come and go, nothing
+more.”
+
+Germain walked toward the farm and questioned the farmer. Nobody
+could give him an explanation; but after speaking with the farmer,
+he felt sure that the girl had gone without saying a word, and had
+taken the weeping child with her.
+
+“Can they have been ill-treating my son?” cried Germain.
+
+“It was your son, then? How did he happen to be with the little
+girl? Where do you come from, and what is your name?”
+
+Germain, seeing that after the fashion of the country they were
+answering him with questions, stamped his foot impatiently, and
+asked to speak with the master.
+
+The master was away. Usually, he did not spend the whole day when
+he came to the farm. He was on horseback, and he had ridden off to
+one of his other farms.
+
+“But, honestly,” said Germain, growing very anxious, “can’t you
+tell me why this girl left?”
+
+The farmer and his wife exchanged an odd smile. Then the former
+answered that he knew nothing, and that it was no business of his.
+All that Germain could learn was that both girl and child had
+started off toward Fourche. He rushed back to Fourche. The widow
+and her lovers were still away; so was Father Leonard. The maid
+told him that a girl and a child had come to ask for him, but that
+as she did not know them, she did not wish to let them in, and had
+advised them to go to Mers.
+
+“And why did you refuse to let them in?” said Germain, angrily.
+“People are very suspicious in this country, where nobody opens the
+door to a neighbor.”
+
+“But you see,” answered the maid, “in a house as rich as this, I
+must keep my eyes open. When the master is away, I am responsible
+for everything, and I cannot open the door to the first person that
+comes along.”
+
+“It is a bad custom,” said Germain, “and I had rather be poor than
+to live in constant fear like that. Good-by to you, young woman,
+and good-by to your vile country.”
+
+He made inquiries at the neighboring house. The shepherdess
+and child had been seen. As the boy had left Belair suddenly,
+carelessly dressed, with his blouse torn, and his little lambskin
+over his shoulders, and as little Marie was necessarily poorly clad
+at all times, they had been taken for beggars. People had offered
+them bread. The girl had accepted a crust for the child, who was
+hungry, then she had walked away with him very quickly, and had
+entered the forest.
+
+Germain thought a minute, then he asked whether the farmer of
+Ormeaux had not been at Fourche.
+
+“Yes,” they answered, “he passed on horseback a few seconds after
+the girl.”
+
+“Was he chasing her?”
+
+“Oh, so you understand?” answered the village publican, with a
+laugh. “Certain it is that he is the devil of a fellow for running
+after girls. But I don’t believe that he caught her; though, after
+all, if he had seen her--”
+
+“That is enough, thank you!” And he flew rather than ran to
+Leonard’s stable. Throwing the saddle on the gray’s back, he leaped
+upon it, and set off at full gallop toward the wood of Chanteloube.
+
+His heart beat hard with fear and anger; the sweat poured down his
+forehead; he spurred the mare till the blood came, though the gray
+needed no pressing when she felt herself on the road to her stable.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: (Ornament)]
+
+XIII
+
+The Old Woman
+
+
+Germain came soon to the spot where he had passed the night on the
+border of the pool. The fire was smoking still. An old woman was
+gathering the remnants of the wood little Marie had piled there.
+Germain stopped to question her. She was deaf and mistook his
+inquiries.
+
+“Yes, my son,” said she, “this is the Devil’s Pool. It is an evil
+spot, and you must not approach it without throwing in three stones
+with your left hand, while you cross yourself with the right. That
+drives away the spirits. Otherwise trouble comes to those who go
+around it.”
+
+“I am not asking about that,” said Germain, moving nearer her, and
+screaming at the top of his lungs. “Have you seen a girl and a
+child walking through the wood?”
+
+“Yes,” said the old woman, “a little child was drowned there.”
+
+Germain shook from head to foot; but happily the hag added:
+
+“That happened a long time ago. In memory of the accident they
+raised a handsome cross there. But one stormy night, the bad
+spirits threw it into the water. You can still see one end of it.
+If anybody were unlucky enough to pass the night here, he could
+never find his way out before daylight. He must walk and walk, and
+though he went two hundred leagues into the forest, he must always
+return to the same place.”
+
+The peasant’s imagination was aroused in spite of himself, and the
+thought of the evils that must come in order that the old woman’s
+assertions might be vindicated, took so firm a hold of his mind
+that he felt chilled through and through. Hopeless of obtaining
+more news, he remounted, and traversed the woods afresh, calling
+Pierre with all his might, whistling, cracking his whip, and
+snapping the branches that the whole forest might reëcho with the
+noise of his coming; then he listened for an answering voice, but
+he heard no sound save the cowbells scattered through the glades,
+and the wild cries of the swine as they fought over the acorns.
+
+At length Germain heard behind him the noise of a horse following
+in his traces, and a man of middle age, dark, sturdy, and dressed
+after the city fashion, called to him to stop. Germain had never
+seen the farmer of Ormeaux, but his instinctive rage told him at
+once that this was the man. He turned, and eyeing him from head to
+foot, waited for him to speak.
+
+“Have not you seen a young girl of fifteen or sixteen go by with a
+small boy?” asked the farmer, with an assumed air of indifference,
+although he was evidently ill at ease.
+
+“What do you want of her?” answered Germain, taking no pains to
+conceal his anger.
+
+“I might tell you that that is none of your business, my friend.
+But as I have no reasons for secrecy, I shall tell you that she is
+a shepherdess whom I engaged for a year, before I knew her. When
+I saw her, she looked too young and frail to work on the farm. I
+thanked her, but I wished to pay the expenses of her short journey,
+and while my back was turned, she went off in a huff. She was in
+such a hurry that she forgot even some of her belongings and her
+purse, which has certainly not much in it, probably but a few
+pennies; but since I was going in this direction, I hoped to meet
+her, and give her back the things which she left behind, as well as
+what I owe her.”
+
+Germain had too honest a heart not to pause at hearing a story
+which, however unlikely, was not impossible. He fastened his
+penetrating gaze on the farmer, who submitted to the examination
+with a plentiful supply of impudence or of good faith.
+
+“I wish to get at the bottom of this matter,” said Germain; “and,”
+continued he, suppressing his indignation, “the girl lives in
+my village. I know her. She can’t be far away. Let’s ride on
+together; we shall find her, no doubt.”
+
+“You are right,” said the farmer; “let’s move on; but if we do not
+find her before we reach the end of this road, I shall give up, for
+I must turn off toward Ardentes.”
+
+“Oh, oh!” thought the peasant, “I shall not part with you, even if
+I have to follow you around the Devil’s Pool for twenty-four hours.”
+
+“Stop,” said Germain suddenly, fixing his eyes on a clump of broom
+which waved in a peculiar manner. “Halloa! halloa! Petit Pierre, is
+that you, my child?”
+
+The boy recognized his father’s voice, and came out from the broom
+leaping like a young deer; but when he saw Germain in company with
+the farmer, he stopped dismayed, and stood irresolute. “Come, my
+Pierre, come. It is I,” cried the husbandman, as he leaped from his
+horse and ran toward his boy to take him in his arms; “and where is
+little Marie?”
+
+“She is hiding there, because she is afraid of that dreadful black
+man, and so am I.”
+
+“You needn’t be afraid. I am here. Marie, Marie. It is I.”
+
+Marie crept toward them, but the moment she saw Germain with the
+farmer close behind, she sprang forward, and throwing herself into
+his arms, clung to him as a daughter to her father.
+
+“Oh, my brave Germain!” she cried, “you will defend me. I am not
+afraid when you are near.”
+
+Germain shuddered. He looked at Marie. She was pale; her clothes
+were torn by the thorns which had scratched her as she passed,
+rushing toward the brake like a stag chased by the hunters. But
+neither shame nor despair were in her face.
+
+“Your master wishes to speak to you,” said he, his eyes fixed on
+her features.
+
+“My master!” she exclaimed fiercely; “that man is no master of
+mine, and he never shall be. You, Germain, you are my master. I
+want you to take me home with you. I will be your servant for
+nothing.”
+
+The farmer advanced, feigning impatience. “Little girl,” said he,
+“you left something behind at the farm, which I am bringing back to
+you.”
+
+“No, you are not, sir,” answered little Marie. “I didn’t forget
+anything, and I have nothing to ask of you.”
+
+“Listen a moment,” returned the farmer. “It’s I who have something
+to tell you. Come with me. Don’t be afraid. It’s only a word or
+two.”
+
+“You may say them aloud. I have no secrets with you.”
+
+“At any rate, do take your money.”
+
+“My money? You owe me nothing, thank God!”
+
+“I suspected as much,” said Germain under his breath, “but I don’t
+care, Marie. Listen to what he has to say to you, for--I am curious
+to know. You can tell me afterward. Go up to his horse. I shall not
+lose sight of you.”
+
+Marie took three steps toward the farmer. He bent over the pommel
+of his saddle, and lowering his voice he said:
+
+“Little girl, here is a bright golden louis for you. Don’t say
+anything about it; do you hear? I shall say that I found you too
+frail to work on my farm. There will be no more talk about that. I
+shall be passing by your house one of these days; and if you have
+not said anything, I will give you something more; and then if you
+are more sensible, you have only to speak. I will take you home
+with me, or I will come at dusk and talk with you in the meadows.
+What present would you like me to bring you?”
+
+“Here, sir, is the present I have for you,” answered little Marie,
+aloud, as she threw the golden louis in his face with all her
+might. “I thank you heartily, and I beg that if you come anywhere
+near our house, you will be good enough to let me know. All the
+boys in the neighborhood will go out to welcome you, because, where
+I live, we are very fond of gentlemen who try to make love to poor
+girls. You shall see. They will be on the lookout for you.”
+
+“You lie with your dirty tongue,” cried the farmer, raising his
+stick with a dangerous air. “You wish to make people believe what
+is not so, but you shall never get a penny out of me. We know what
+kind of a girl you are.”
+
+Marie drew back, frightened, and Germain sprang to the bridle of
+the farmer’s horse and shook it violently.
+
+“I understand now,” said he; “it is easy to see what is going on.
+Get down, my man, get down; I want to talk to you.”
+
+The farmer was not eager to take up the quarrel. Anxious to escape,
+he set spurs to his horse and tried to loosen the peasant’s grasp
+by striking down his hands with a cane; but Germain dodged the
+blow, and seizing hold of his antagonist’s leg, he unseated him and
+flung him to the earth. The farmer regained his feet, but although
+he defended himself vigorously, he was knocked down once more.
+Germain held him to the ground. Then he said:
+
+“Poor coward, I could thrash you if I wished. But I don’t want to
+do you an injury, and, besides, no amount of punishment would help
+your conscience--but you shall not stir from this spot until you
+beg the girl’s pardon, on your knees.”
+
+The farmer understood this sort of thing, and wished to take it all
+as a joke. He made believe that his offense was not serious, since
+it lay in words alone, and protested that he was perfectly willing
+to ask her pardon, provided he might kiss the girl afterward.
+Finally, he proposed that they go and drink a pint of wine at the
+nearest tavern, and so part good friends.
+
+“You are disgusting!” answered Germain, rubbing his victim’s head
+in the dirt, “and I never wish to see your nasty face again. So
+blush, if you are able, and when you come to our village, you had
+better slink along Sneak’s Alley.”[2]
+
+He picked up the farmer’s holly-stick, broke it over his knee to
+show the strength of his wrists, and threw away the pieces with
+disgust. Then giving one hand to his son and the other to little
+Marie, he walked away, still trembling with anger.
+
+
+[2] This is the road, which, diverging from the principal street at
+the entrance of villages, makes a circuit about them. Persons who
+are in dread of receiving some well deserved insult, are supposed
+to take this route to escape attention.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: (Ornament)]
+
+XIV
+
+The Return to the Farm
+
+
+At the end of fifteen minutes they had left the heath behind them.
+They trotted along the highroad, and the gray whinnied at each
+familiar object. Petit-Pierre told his father as much as he could
+understand of what had passed.
+
+“When we reached the farm,” said he, “that man came to speak to my
+Marie in the fold where we had gone to see the pretty sheep. I had
+climbed into the manger to play, and that man did not see me. Then
+he said good morning to Marie, and he kissed her.”
+
+“You allowed him to kiss you, Marie?” said Germain, trembling with
+anger.
+
+“I thought it was a civility, a custom of the place to new-comers,
+just as at your farm the grandmother kisses the young girls who
+enter her service to show that she adopts them and will be a mother
+to them.”
+
+“And next,” went on little Pierre, who was proud to have an
+adventure to tell of, “_that man_ told you something wicked, which
+you have told me never to repeat and not even remember; so I forgot
+it right away. Still, if father wishes, I will tell him what it
+was--”
+
+“No, Pierre, I don’t wish to hear, and I don’t wish you ever to
+think of it again.”
+
+“Then I will forget it all over again,” replied the child. “Next,
+_that man_ seemed to be growing angry because Marie told him that
+she was going away. He told her he would give her whatever she
+wanted,--a hundred francs! And my Marie grew angry too. Then he
+came toward her as if he wished to hurt her. I was afraid, and I
+ran to Marie and cried. Then _that man_ said: ‘What’s that? Where
+did that child come from? Put it out,’ and he raised his cane to
+beat me. But my Marie prevented him, and she spoke to him this
+way: ‘We will talk later, sir; now I must take this child back to
+Fourche, and then I shall return.’ And as soon as he had left the
+fold, my Marie spoke to me this way: ‘We must run, my Pierre; we
+must get away as quickly as we can, for this is a wicked man and
+he is trying to do us harm.’ Then when we had gone back of the
+farm-houses, we crossed a little meadow, and we went to Fourche to
+find you. But you were not there, and they wouldn’t let us wait.
+And then _that man_, riding his black horse, came behind us, and
+we ran on as fast as we could and hid in the woods. And then he
+followed us, and when we heard him coming, we hid again. And then,
+when he had passed, we began to run toward home, and then you came
+and found us, and that is how it all happened. I haven’t forgotten
+anything, have I, my Marie?”
+
+“No, my Pierre, that is the whole truth. Now, Germain, you must be
+my witness, and tell everybody in the village that if I did not
+stay there it was not from want of courage and industry.”
+
+“And, Marie, I want to ask of you whether a man of twenty-eight is
+too old when there is a woman to be defended and an insult to be
+revenged. I should like to know whether Bastien or any other pretty
+boy, ten years better off than I, would not have been knocked to
+pieces by _that man_, as Petit-Pierre says. What do you think?”
+
+“I think, Germain, that you have done me a great service, and that
+I shall be grateful all my life.”
+
+“Is that all?”
+
+“Little father,” said the child, “I forgot to ask little Marie what
+I promised. I have not had time yet, but I will speak to her at
+home, and I will speak to my grandmother too.”
+
+The child’s promise set Germain to thinking. He must explain his
+conduct to his family and give his objections to the widow Guam,
+and all the while conceal the true reasons which had made him
+so judicious and so decided. When a man is proud and happy, it
+seems an easy task to thrust his happiness upon others, but to be
+repulsed on one side and blamed on the other is not a very pleasant
+position.
+
+Fortunately, Petit-Pierre was fast asleep when they reached the
+farm, and Germain put him to bed undisturbed. Then he began upon
+all sorts of explanations, Father Maurice, seated on a three-legged
+stool before the door, listened with gravity; and, although he
+was ill-content with the result of the journey, when Germain told
+him about the widow’s systematic coquetry, and demanded of his
+father-in-law whether he had the time to go and pay his court
+fifty-two Sundays in the year at the risk of being dismissed in the
+end, the old man nodded his head in assent and answered: “You were
+not wrong, Germain; that could never be.” And then, when Germain
+described how he had been obliged to bring back little Marie, with
+the utmost haste, in order to protect her from the insults or
+perhaps from the violence of a wicked master, Father Maurice nodded
+approvingly again and said: “You were not wrong, Germain; that was
+right.”
+
+When Germain had told his story, and had set forth all his reasons,
+the old farmer and his wife heaved deep, simultaneous sighs of
+resignation, and looked at each other. Then the head of the house
+rose and said: “God’s will be done. Love can’t be made to order.”
+
+“Come to supper, Germain,” said his mother-in-law. “It is
+unfortunate that this did not come to a better end, but, after all,
+it seems that God did not wish it. We must look elsewhere.”
+
+“Yes,” added the old man, “as my wife says, we must look elsewhere.”
+
+There was no more noise at the house, and on the morrow, when
+Petit-Pierre rose with the larks at dawn, he was no longer
+excited by the extraordinary events of the preceding days. Like
+other little peasants of his age, he became indifferent, forgot
+everything that had been running in his head, and thought only of
+playing with his brothers, and of pretending to drive the horses
+and oxen like a man. Germain plunged into his work, and tried
+to forget, too; but he became so absent-minded and so sad that
+everybody noticed it. He never spoke to little Marie, he never
+even looked at her, and yet had anybody asked him in what meadow
+she was, or by what road she had passed, there was not a moment in
+the day when he could not have answered if he would. He dared not
+ask his family to take her in at the farm during the winter, and
+yet he knew well how she must suffer from want. But she did not
+suffer; and Mother Guillette could not understand how her little
+store of wood never grew less, and how her shed was full in the
+morning, although she had left it almost empty at night. It was the
+same with the wheat and potatoes. Somebody entered by the garret
+window, and emptied a sack on the floor without awaking a soul or
+leaving a trace of his coming. The widow was at once uneasy and
+delighted. She made her daughter promise to tell nobody, and said
+that were people to know of the miracle performed at her house they
+would take her for a witch. She felt confident that the devil had
+a share in it, but she was in no hurry to pick a quarrel with him
+by calling down the priest’s exorcisms on the house. It would be
+time enough, she said, when Satan should come to demand her soul in
+return for his gifts.
+
+Little Marie understood the truth better, but she dared not
+speak to Germain, for fear of seeing him return to his dreams of
+marriage, and, before him, she pretended to perceive nothing.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: (Ornament)]
+
+XV
+
+Mother Maurice
+
+
+One day, Mother Maurice was alone in the orchard with Germain, and
+spoke to him kindly:
+
+“My poor son, I believe you are not well. You don’t eat as well as
+usual; you never laugh; you talk less and less. Perhaps one of us,
+or all of us, have hurt your feelings, without knowing and without
+wishing it.”
+
+“No, my mother,” answered Germain, “you have always been as kind
+to me as the mother who brought me into the world, and I should be
+very ungrateful if I were to complain of you or your husband, or of
+anybody in the household.”
+
+“Then, my child, it is the sorrow for your wife’s death which comes
+back to you. Instead of growing lighter with time, your grief
+becomes worse, and as your father has said very wisely, it is
+absolutely necessary for you to marry again.”
+
+“Yes, my mother, that is my opinion, but the women whom you advised
+me to ask don’t suit me. Whenever I see them, instead of forgetting
+my Catherine, I think of her all the more.”
+
+“Apparently that’s because we haven’t been able to understand
+your taste. You must help us by telling us the truth. There must
+be a woman somewhere who is made for you, for God doesn’t make
+anybody without placing his happiness in somebody else. So if you
+know where to find this woman whom you need, take her, and be she
+pretty or ugly, young or old, rich or poor, we have made up our
+minds, my husband and I, to give our consent, for we are tired
+of seeing you so sad, and we can never be happy while you are
+sorrowful.”
+
+“My mother, you are as kind as the kind Lord, and so is my father,”
+answered Germain; “but your compassion brings small help to my
+troubles, for the girl I love doesn’t care for me.”
+
+“She is too young, then? It’s foolish for you to love a young girl.”
+
+“Yes, mother dear, I have been foolish enough to love a young girl,
+and it’s my fault. I do my best to stop thinking of it, but,
+working or sleeping, at mass or in bed, with my children or with
+you, I can think of nothing else.”
+
+“Then it’s like a fate cast over you, Germain. There’s but one
+remedy, and it is that this girl must change her mind and listen
+to you. It’s my duty to look into this, and see whether it’s
+practicable. Tell me where she lives, and what’s her name.”
+
+“Oh, my dear mother, I dare not,” said Germain, “because you will
+make fun of me.”
+
+“I shall not make fun of you, Germain, because you are in trouble,
+and I don’t wish to make it harder for you. Is it Fanchette?”
+
+“No, mother, of course not.”
+
+“Or Rosette?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Tell me, then, for I shall never finish if I must name every girl
+in the countryside.”
+
+Germain bowed his head, and could not bring himself to answer.
+
+“Very good,” said Mother Maurice, “I shall let you alone for
+to-day; to-morrow, perhaps, you will be more confidential with me,
+or possibly your sister-in-law will question you more cleverly.”
+And she picked up her basket to go and spread her linen on the
+bushes.
+
+Germain acted like children who make up their minds when they see
+that they are no longer attracting attention. He followed his
+mother, and at length, trembling, he named Marie of Guillette.
+
+Great was the surprise of Mother Maurice. Marie was the last person
+she would have dreamed of. But she had the delicacy not to cry out,
+and made her comments to herself. Then seeing that her silence hurt
+Germain, she stretched out her basket toward him and said:
+
+“Is there any reason for not helping me at my work. Carry this
+load, and come and talk with me. Have you reflected well, Germain?
+Are you fully decided?”
+
+“Alas, dear mother, you mustn’t speak in that way. I should be
+decided if I had a chance of success, but as I could never be
+heard, I have only made up my mind to cure myself, if I can.”
+
+“And if you can’t.”
+
+“There is an end to everything, Mother Maurice: when the horse is
+laden too heavily, he falls, and when the cow has nothing to eat,
+she dies.”
+
+“Do you mean to say that you will die, if you do not succeed. God
+grant not, Germain. I don’t like to hear a man like you talk of
+those things; for what he says, he thinks. You are very brave, and
+weakness is dangerous for strong men. Take heart; I can’t conceive
+that a poverty-stricken girl, whom you have honored so much as to
+ask her to marry you, will refuse you.”
+
+“Yet it’s the truth: she does refuse me.”
+
+“And what reasons does she give you?”
+
+“That you have always been kind to her, and that her family owes a
+great deal to yours, and that she doesn’t wish to displease you by
+turning me away from a rich marriage.”
+
+“If she says that, she proves her good sense, and shows what an
+honest girl she is. But, Germain, she doesn’t cure you; for of
+course she tells you that she loves you and would marry you if we
+were willing?”
+
+“That’s the worst part of all. She says that her heart can never be
+mine.”
+
+“If she says what she doesn’t think in order to keep you at a
+safer distance, the child deserves our love, and we should pass
+over her youth on account of her great good sense.”
+
+“Yes,” said Germain, struck by a hope he had never held before;
+“that would be very wise and right of her! But if she is so
+sensible, I am sure it is because I displease her.”
+
+“Germain,” said Mother Maurice, “you must promise me not to worry
+for a whole week. Keep from tormenting yourself, eat, sleep, and be
+as gay as you used to be. For my part, I’ll speak to my husband,
+and if I gain his consent, you shall know the girl’s real feelings
+toward you.”
+
+Germain promised, and the week passed without a single word in
+private from Father Maurice, who seemed to suspect nothing. The
+husbandman did his best to look calm, but he grew ever paler and
+more troubled.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: (Ornament)]
+
+XVI
+
+Little Marie
+
+
+At length, on Sunday morning, when mass was over, his mother-in-law
+asked Germain what encouragement he had had from his sweetheart
+since the conversation in the orchard.
+
+“Why, none at all,” answered he; “I haven’t spoken to her.”
+
+“How can you expect to win her if you don’t speak to her?”
+
+“I have spoken to her but once,” replied Germain. “That was when we
+were together at Fourche, and since then I haven’t said a single
+word. Her refusal gave me so much pain that I had rather not hear
+her begin again to tell me that she doesn’t love me.”
+
+“But, my son, you must speak to her now; your father gives his
+approval. So make up your mind. I tell you to do it, and, if
+need be, I shall order you to do it, for you can’t rest in this
+uncertainty.”
+
+Germain obeyed. He reached Mother Guillette’s house, hanging his
+head with a hopeless air. Little Marie sat alone before the hearth
+so thoughtful that she did not hear Germain’s step. When she saw
+him before her, she started from her chair in surprise and grew
+very red.
+
+“Little Marie,” said he, sitting down near her, “I come to trouble
+you and to give you pain. I know it very well, but the man and
+his wife at home [it was thus after the peasant fashion that he
+designated the heads of the house] wish me to speak to you, and beg
+you to marry me. You don’t care for me. I am prepared for it.”
+
+“Germain,” answered little Marie, “are you sure that you love me?”
+
+“It pains you, I know, but it isn’t my fault. If you could change
+your mind, I should be so very happy, and certain it is that I
+don’t deserve it. Look at me, Marie; am I very terrible?”
+
+“No, Germain,” she answered, with a smile, “you are better looking
+than I.”
+
+“Don’t make fun of me; look at me charitably; as yet, I have never
+lost a single hair nor a single tooth. My eyes tell you plainly how
+much I love you. Look straight into my eyes. It is written there,
+and every girl knows how to read that writing.”
+
+Marie looked into Germain’s eyes with playful boldness; then of a
+sudden she turned away her head and trembled.
+
+“Good God,” exclaimed Germain, “I make you afraid; you look at me
+as though I were the farmer of Ormeaux. Don’t be afraid of me,
+please don’t; that hurts me too much. I shall not say any bad words
+to you, I shall not kiss you if you will not have me, and when you
+wish me to go away, you have only to show me the door. Must I go in
+order to stop your trembling?”
+
+Marie held out her hand toward the husbandman, but without turning
+her head, which was bent on the fireplace, and without saying a
+word.
+
+“I understand,” said Germain. “You pity me, for you are kind; you
+are sorry to make me unhappy; but you can’t love me.”
+
+“Why do you say these things to me, Germain?” answered little
+Marie, after a pause. “Do you wish to make me cry?”
+
+“Poor little girl, you have a kind heart, I know; but you don’t
+love me, and you are hiding your face for fear of letting me see
+your dislike and your repugnance. And I? I dare not even clasp your
+hand! In the forest, when my boy was asleep and you were sleeping
+too, I almost kissed you very gently. But I would have died of
+shame rather than ask it of you, and that night I suffered as a man
+burning over a slow fire. Since that time I have dreamed of you
+every night. Ah! how I have kissed you, Marie! Yet during all that
+time you have slept without a dream. And now, do you know what I
+think? I think that were you to turn and look at me with the eyes
+I have for you, and were you to move your face close to mine, I
+believe I should fall dead for joy. And you, you think that if such
+a thing were to happen, you would die of anger and shame!”
+
+Germain spoke as in a dream, not hearing the words he said. Little
+Marie was trembling all the time, but he was shaking yet more
+and did not notice it. Of a sudden, she turned. Her eyes were
+filled with tears, and she looked at him reproachfully. The poor
+husbandman thought that this was the last blow, and without waiting
+for his sentence, he rose to go, but the girl stopped him, and
+throwing both her arms about him, she hid her face in his breast.
+
+“Oh, Germain,” she sobbed, “didn’t you feel that I loved you?”
+
+Then Germain had gone mad, if his son, who came galloping into
+the cottage on a stick, with his little sister on the crupper,
+scourging the imaginary steed with a willow branch, had not brought
+him to his senses. He lifted the boy and placed him in the girl’s
+arms.
+
+“See,” said he, “by loving me, you have made more than one person
+happy.”
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: (Ornament)]
+
+APPENDIX
+
+I
+
+A Country Wedding
+
+
+Here ends the history of Germain’s marriage as he told it to me
+himself, good husbandman that he is. I ask your forgiveness, kind
+reader, that I know not how to translate it better; for it is a
+real translation that is needed by this old-fashioned and artless
+language of the peasants of the country “that I sing,” as they
+used to say. These people speak French that is too true for us,
+and since Rabelais and Montaigne, the advance of the language has
+lost for us many of its old riches. Thus it is with every advance,
+and we must make the best of it. Yet it is a pleasure still to
+hear those picturesque idioms used in the old districts in the
+center of France; all the more because it is the genuine expression
+of the laughing, quiet, and delightfully talkative character of
+the people who make use of it. Touraine has preserved a certain
+precious number of patriarchal phrases. But Touraine was civilized
+greatly during the Renaissance, and since its decline she is filled
+with fine houses and highroads, with foreigners and traffic. Berry
+remained as she was, and I think that after Brittany and a few
+provinces in the far south of France, it is the best preserved
+district to be found at the present day. Some of the costumes are
+so strange and so curious that I hope to amuse you a few minutes
+more, kind reader, if you will allow me to describe to you in
+detail a country wedding--Germain’s, for example--at which I had
+the pleasure of assisting several years ago.
+
+For, alas! everything passes. During my life alone, more change
+has taken place in the ideas and in the customs of my village than
+had been seen in the centuries before the Revolution. Already half
+the ceremonies, Celtic, Pagan, or of the Middle Ages, that in my
+childhood I have seen in their full vigor, have disappeared. In
+a year or two more, perhaps, the railroads will lay their level
+tracks across our deep valleys, and will carry away, with the
+swiftness of lightning, all our old traditions and our wonderful
+legends.
+
+It was in winter about the carnival season, the time of year when,
+in our country, it is fitting and proper to have weddings. In
+summer the time can hardly be spared, and the work of the farm
+cannot suffer three days’ delay, not to speak of the additional
+days impaired to a greater or to a less degree by the moral and
+physical drunkenness which follows a gala-day. I was seated beneath
+the great mantelpiece of the old-fashioned kitchen fireplace when
+shots of pistols, barking of dogs, and the piercing notes of the
+bagpipe told me that the bridal pair were approaching. Very soon
+Father and Mother Maurice, Germain, and little Marie, followed by
+Jacques and his wife, the closer relatives, and the godfathers and
+godmothers of the bride and groom, all made their entry into the
+yard.
+
+Little Marie had not yet received her wedding-gifts,--favors, as
+they call them,--and was dressed in the best of her simple clothes,
+a dress of dark, heavy cloth, a white fichu with great spots of
+brilliant color, an apron of carnation,--an Indian red much in
+vogue at the time, but despised nowadays,--a cap of very white
+muslin after that pattern, happily still preserved, which calls to
+mind the head-dress of Anne Boleyn and of Agnes Sorrel. She was
+fresh and laughing, but not at all vain, though she had good reason
+to be so. Beside her was Germain, serious and tender, like young
+Jacob greeting Rebecca at the wells of Laban. Another girl would
+have assumed an important air and struck an attitude of triumph,
+for in every rank it is something to be married for a fair face
+alone. Yet the girl’s eyes were moist and shone with tenderness. It
+was plain that she was deep in love and had no time to think of the
+opinions of others. Her little air of determination was not absent,
+but everything about her denoted frankness and good-will. There was
+nothing impertinent in her success, nothing selfish in her sense of
+power. Never have I seen so lovely a bride, when she answered with
+frankness her young friends who asked if she were happy:
+
+“Surely I have nothing to complain of the good Lord.”
+
+Father Maurice was spokesman. He came forward to pay his
+compliments, and give the customary invitations. First he fastened
+to the mantelpiece a branch of laurel decked out with ribbons; this
+is known as the _writ_--that is to say, the letter of announcement.
+Next he gave to every guest a tiny cross made of a bit of blue
+ribbon sewn to a transverse bit of pink ribbon--pink for the bride,
+blue for the groom. The guests of both sexes were expected to
+keep this badge to adorn their caps or their button-holes on the
+wedding-day. This is the letter of invitation, the admission ticket.
+
+Then Father Maurice paid his congratulations. He invited the
+head of the house and all his _company_,--that is to say, all
+his children, all his friends, and all his servants,--to the
+benediction, _to the feast, to the sports, to the dance, and to
+everything that follows_. He did not fail to say, “I have come _to
+do you the honor of inviting you_”; a very right manner of speech,
+even though it appears to us to convey the wrong meaning, for it
+expresses the idea of doing honor to those who seem worthy of it.
+
+Despite the generosity of the invitation carried from house to
+house throughout the parish, politeness, which is very cautious
+amongst peasants, demands that only two persons from each family
+take advantage of it--one of the heads of the house, and one from
+the number of their children.
+
+After the invitations were made, the betrothed couple and their
+families took dinner together at the farm.
+
+Little Marie kept her three sheep on the common, and Germain tilled
+the soil as though nothing had happened.
+
+About two in the afternoon before the day set for the wedding,
+the music came. The music means the players of the bagpipe and
+hurdy-gurdy, their instruments decorated with long streaming
+ribbons, playing an appropriate march to a measure which would
+have been rather slow for feet foreign to the soil, but admirably
+adapted to the heavy ground and hilly roads of the country.
+
+Pistol-shots, fired by the young people and the children, announced
+the beginning of the wedding ceremonies. Little by little the
+guests assembled, and danced on the grass-plot before the house in
+order to enter into the spirit of the occasion. When evening was
+come they began strange preparations; they divided into two bands,
+and when night had settled down they proceeded to the ceremony of
+the _favors_.
+
+All this passed at the dwelling of the bride, Mother Guillette’s
+cottage. Mother Guillette took with her her daughter, a dozen
+pretty shepherdesses, friends and relatives of her daughter, two or
+three respectable housewives, talkative neighbors, quick of wit and
+strict guardians of ancient customs. Next she chose a dozen stout
+fellows, her relatives and friends; and last of all the parish
+hemp-dresser, a garrulous old man, and as good a talker as ever
+there was.
+
+The part which, in Brittany, is played by the bazvalon, the village
+tailor, is taken in our part of the country by the hemp-dresser and
+the wool-carder, two professions which are unusually combined in
+one. He is present at all ceremonies, sad or gay, for he is very
+learned and a fluent talker, and on these occasions he must always
+figure as spokesman, in order to fulfil with exactitude certain
+formalities used from time immemorial. Traveling occupations, which
+bring a man into the midst of other families, without allowing him
+to shut himself up within his own, are well fitted to make him
+talker, wit, storyteller, and singer.
+
+The hemp-dresser is peculiarly skeptical. He and another village
+functionary, of whom we have spoken before, the grave-digger, are
+always the daring spirits of the neighborhood. They have talked so
+much about ghosts, and they know so well all the tricks of which
+these malicious spirits are capable, that they fear them scarcely
+at all. It is especially at night that all of them--grave-diggers,
+hemp-dressers, and ghosts--do their work. It is also at night when
+the hemp-dresser tells his melancholy stories. Permit me to make a
+digression.
+
+When the hemp has reached the right stage, that is to say, when
+it has been steeped sufficiently in running water, and half dried
+on the bank, it is brought into the yard and arranged in little
+upright sheaves, which, with their stalks divided at the base, and
+their heads bound in balls, bear in the dusk some small resemblance
+to a long procession of little white phantoms, standing on their
+slender legs, and moving noiselessly along the wall.
+
+It is at the end of September, when the nights are still warm,
+that they begin to beat it by the pale light of the moon. By day
+the hemp has been heated in the oven; at night they take it out to
+beat it while it is still hot. For this they use a kind of horse
+surmounted by a wooden lever which falls into grooves and breaks
+the plant without cutting it. It is then that you hear in the night
+that sudden, sharp noise of three blows in quick succession. Then
+there is silence; it is the movement of the arm drawing out the
+handful of hemp to break it in a fresh spot. The three blows begin
+again; the other arm works the lever, and thus it goes on until the
+moon is hidden by the early streaks of dawn. As the work continues
+but a few days in the year, the dogs are not accustomed to it, and
+yelp their plaintive howls toward every point of the horizon.
+
+It is the time of unwonted and mysterious sounds in the country.
+The migrating cranes fly so high that by day they are scarcely
+visible. By night they are only heard, and their hoarse wailing
+voices, lost in the clouds, sound like the parting cry of souls
+in torment, striving to find the road to heaven, yet forced by an
+unconquerable fate to wander near the earth about the haunts of
+men; for these errant birds have strange uncertainties, and many a
+mysterious anxiety in the course of their airy flight. Sometimes
+they lose the wind when the capricious gusts battle, or come and go
+in the upper regions. When this confusion comes by day, you can see
+the leader of the file fluttering aimlessly in the air, then turn
+about and take his place at the tail of the triangular phalanx,
+while a skilful manœuver of his companions forms them soon in good
+order behind him. Often, after vain efforts, the exhausted leader
+relinquishes the guidance of the caravan; another comes forward,
+tries in his turn, and yields his place to a third, who finds the
+breeze, and continues the march in triumph. But what cries, what
+reproaches, what protests, what wild curses or anxious questionings
+are exchanged in an unknown tongue amongst these winged pilgrims!
+
+Sometimes, in the resonant night, you can hear these sinister
+noises whirling for a long time above the housetops, and as you
+can see nothing, you feel, despite your efforts, a kind of dread
+and kindred discomfort, until the sobbing multitude is lost in
+boundless space.
+
+There are other noises too which belong to this time of year, and
+which sound usually in the orchards. Gathering the fruit is not
+yet over, and the thousand unaccustomed cracklings make the tree
+seem alive. A branch groans as it bends beneath a burden which has
+reached, of a sudden, the last stage of growth; or perhaps an apple
+breaks from the twig, and falls on the damp earth at your feet with
+a dull sound. Then you hear rush by, brushing the branches and the
+grass, a creature you cannot see; it is the peasant’s dog, that
+prowling and uneasy rover, at once impudent and cowardly, always
+wandering, never sleeping, ever seeking you know not what, spying
+upon you, hiding in the brush, and taking flight at the sound of a
+falling apple, which he thinks a stone that you are throwing at him.
+
+It is during those nights, nights misty and gray, that the
+hemp-dresser tells his weird stories of will-o’-the-wisps and
+milk-white hares, of souls in torment and wizards changed to
+wolves, of witches’ vigils at the cross-roads, and screech-owls,
+prophetesses of the graveyard. I remember passing the early hours
+of such a night while the hemp-dressing was going on, and the
+pitiless strokes, interrupting the dresser’s story at its most
+awful place, sent icy shivers through our veins. And often too the
+good man continued his story as he worked, and four or five words
+were lost, terrible words, no doubt, which we dared not make him
+repeat, and whose omission added a mystery yet more fearful to the
+dark mysteries of the story which had gone before. It was in vain
+the servants warned us that it was too late to stay without doors,
+and that bedtime had sounded for us long since; they too were dying
+to hear more; and then with what terror we crossed the hamlet on
+our way home! How deep did the church porch appear to us, and how
+thick and black the shadows of the old trees! The graveyard we
+dared not see; we shut our eyes tight as we passed it.
+
+But no more than the sacristan is the hemp-dresser gifted solely
+with the desire of frightening; he loves to make people laugh; he
+is sarcastic and sentimental at need, when love and marriage are
+to be sung. It is he who collects and keeps stored in his memory
+the oldest songs, and who transmits them to posterity. And so it
+is he who acts at weddings the part we shall see him play at the
+presentation of little Marie’s favors.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: (Ornament)]
+
+II
+
+The Wedding Favors
+
+
+When all the guests were met together in the house, the doors
+and windows were closed with the utmost care; even the garret
+window was barricaded; boards and benches, logs and tables were
+placed behind every entrance, just as if the inhabitants were
+making ready to sustain a siege; and within these fortifications
+solemn stillness prevailed until at a distance were heard songs
+and laughter and the sounds of rustic music. It was the band of
+the bridegroom, Germain at the head, followed by his most trusty
+companions and by the grave-digger, relatives, friends, and
+servants, who formed a compact and merry train. Meanwhile, as they
+came nearer the house they slackened their pace, held a council
+of war, and became silent. The girls, shut up in the house, had
+arranged little loop-holes at the windows by which they could see
+the enemy approach and deploy in battle array. A fine, cold rain
+was falling, which added zest to the situation, while a great
+fire blazed on the hearth within. Marie wished to cut short the
+inevitable slowness of this well-ordered siege; she had no desire
+to see her lover catch cold, but not being in authority she had
+to take an ostensible share in the mischievous cruelty of her
+companions.
+
+When the two armies met, a discharge of firearms on the part of the
+besiegers set all the dogs in the neighborhood to barking. Those
+within the house dashed at the door with loud yelps, thinking that
+the attack was in earnest, and the children, little reassured by
+the efforts of their mothers, began to weep and to tremble. The
+whole scene was played so well that a stranger would have been
+deceived, and would have made his preparations to fight a band of
+brigands. Then the grave-digger, bard and orator of the groom, took
+his stand before the door, and with a rueful voice, exchanged the
+following dialogue with the hemp-dresser, who was stationed above
+the same door:
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “Ah, my good people, my fellow-townsmen, for
+the love of Heaven, open the door.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “Who are you, and what right have you to call
+us your dear fellow-townsmen? We don’t know you.”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “We are worthy folk in great distress. Don’t
+be afraid of us, my friends. Extend us your hospitality. Sleet is
+falling; our poor feet are frozen, and our journey home has been so
+long that our sabots are split.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “If your sabots are split, you can look on the
+ground; you will find very soon a sprig of willow to make some
+_arcelets_ [small curved blades of iron which are fastened on split
+sabots to hold them together].”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “Willow _arcelets_ are scarcely strong enough.
+You are making fun of us, good people, and you would do better
+to open your doors. We can see a splendid fire blazing in your
+dwelling. The spit must be turning, and we can make merry with you,
+heart and belly. So open your doors to poor pilgrims who will die
+on the threshold if you are not merciful.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “Ah ha! so you are pilgrims? You never told us
+that. And what pilgrimage do you come from, may I ask?”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “We shall tell you that when you open the door,
+for we come from so far that you would never believe it.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “Open the door to you? I rather think not. We
+can’t trust you. Tell us, is it from Saint Sylvain of Pouligny that
+you come?”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “We have been at Saint Sylvain of Pouligny, but
+we have been farther still.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “Then you have been as far as Saint Solange?”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “At Saint Solange we have been, sure enough,
+but we have been farther yet.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “You are lying. You have never been as far as
+Saint Solange.”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “We have been farther, for now we are come from
+Saint Jacques of Compostelle.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “What absurdity are you telling us? We don’t
+know that parish. We can easily see that you are bad people,
+brigands, nobodies, and liars. Go away with your nonsense. We are
+on our guard. You can’t come in.”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “Ah, my poor fellow, take pity on us. We are
+not pilgrims, as you have guessed, but we are unlucky poachers
+pursued by the keepers. Even the police are after us, and if you
+don’t hide us in your hay-loft, we shall be taken and led off to
+prison.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “And who will prove you are what you say you
+are, this time? For you have told us one lie already that you can’t
+maintain.”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “If you will let us in, we shall show you a
+pretty piece of game we have killed.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “Show it right away, for we have our
+suspicions.”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “All right, open the door or a window to let us
+pass the creature in.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “Oh, no, not quite so foolish. I am looking at
+you through a little chink, and I can see neither hunters nor game
+amongst you.”
+
+Here an ox-driver, a thick-set fellow of herculean strength,
+detached himself from a group where he had stood unperceived, and
+raised toward the window a plucked goose, spitted on a strong iron
+bar decorated with tufts of straw and ribbons.
+
+“Ho, ho!” cried the hemp-dresser, after cautiously extending an arm
+to feel the roast. “That isn’t a quail nor a partridge; it isn’t
+a hare nor a rabbit; it’s something like a goose or a turkey. Upon
+my word, you’re clever hunters, and that game didn’t make you run
+very far. Move on, you rogues; we know all your lies, and you had
+best go home and cook your supper. You are not going to eat ours.”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “O Heavens, where can we go to cook our game?
+It is very little for so many as we, and, besides, we have neither
+place nor fire. At this time every door is closed, and every soul
+asleep. You are the only people who are celebrating a wedding at
+home, and you must be hardhearted indeed to let us freeze outside.
+Once again, good people, open the door; we shall not cost you
+anything. You can see that we bring our own meat; only a little
+room at your hearth, a little blaze to cook with, and we shall go
+on our way rejoicing.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “Do you suppose that we have too much room
+here, and that wood is bought for nothing?”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “We have here a small bundle of hay to make the
+fire. We shall be satisfied with that; only grant us leave to place
+the spit across your fireplace.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “That will never do. We are disgusted, and
+don’t pity you at all. It is my opinion that you are drunk, that
+you need nothing, and that you only wish to come in and steal away
+our fire and our daughters.”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “Since you won’t listen to reason, we shall
+make our way in by force.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “Try, if you want; we are shut in well enough
+to have no fear of you, and since you are impudent fellows, we
+shall not answer you again.”
+
+Thereupon the hemp-dresser shut the garret window with a bang, and
+came down into the room below by a step-ladder. Then he took the
+bride by the hand, the young people of both sexes followed, and
+they all began to sing and chatter merrily, while the matrons sang
+in piercing voices, and shrieked with laughter in derision and
+bravado at those without who were attempting an attack.
+
+The besiegers, on their side, made a great hubbub. They discharged
+their pistols at the doors, made the dogs growl, whacked the walls,
+shook the blinds, and uttered frightful shrieks. In short, there
+was such a pandemonium that nobody could hear, and such a cloud of
+dust that nobody could see.
+
+And yet this attack was all a sham. The time had not come for
+breaking through the etiquette. If, in prowling about, anybody were
+to find an unguarded aperture, or any opening whatsoever, he might
+try to slip in unobserved, and then, if the carrier of the spit
+succeeded in placing his roast before the fire, and thus prove the
+capture of the hearth, the comedy was over and the bridegroom had
+conquered.
+
+The entrances of the house, however, were not numerous enough for
+any to be neglected in the customary precautions, and nobody might
+use violence before the moment fixed for the struggle.
+
+When they were weary of dancing and screams, the hemp-dresser began
+to think of capitulation. He went up to his window, opened it with
+precaution, and greeted the baffled assailants with a burst of
+laughter.
+
+“Well, my boys,” said he, “you look very sheep-faced. You thought
+there was nothing easier than to come in, and you see that our
+defense is good. But we are beginning to have pity on you, if you
+will submit and accept our conditions.”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “Speak, good people. Tell us what we must do to
+approach your hearth.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “You must sing, my friends; but sing a song we
+don’t know,--one that we can’t answer by a better.”
+
+“That’s not hard to do,” answered the grave-digger, and he
+thundered in a powerful voice:
+
+    “‘Six months ago, ’twas in the spring....’”
+
+    “‘I wandered through the sprouting grass,’”
+
+answered the hemp-dresser in a slightly hoarse but terrible voice.
+“You must be jesting, my poor friends, singing us such time-worn
+songs. You see very well that we can stop you at the first word.”
+
+    “‘She was a prince’s daughter....’”
+
+    “‘Right gladly would she wed,’”
+
+answered the hemp-dresser. “Come, move on to the next; we know that
+a little too well.”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “How do you like this one?”--
+
+    “‘As I was journeying home from Nantes.’”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_:
+
+    “‘Weary, oh, weary, was I, was I.’”
+
+“That dates from my grandmother’s time. Let’s have another.”
+
+_The Grave-digger_:
+
+    “‘One day I went a-walking....’”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_:
+
+    “‘Along a lovely wood!’”
+
+“That one is too stupid! Our little children wouldn’t take the
+trouble to answer you. What! Are these all you know?”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “Oh, we shall sing you so many that you will
+never be able to hear them all.”
+
+In this way a full hour passed. As the two antagonists were
+champions of the country round in the matter of songs, and as
+their store seemed inexhaustible, the contest might last all night
+with ease, all the more because the hemp-dresser, with a touch of
+malice, allowed several ballads of ten, twenty, or thirty couplets
+to be sung through, feigning by his silence to admit his defeat.
+Then the bridegroom’s camp rejoiced and sang aloud in chorus, and
+thought that this time the foe was worsted; but at the first line
+of the last couplet, they heard the hoarse croaking of the old
+hemp-dresser bellow forth the second rhyme. Then he cried:
+
+“You need not tire yourselves by singing such a long one, my
+children--we know that one to our finger-tips.”
+
+Once or twice, however, the hemp-dresser made a wry face,
+contracted his brow, and turned toward the expectant housewives
+with a baffled air. The grave-digger was singing something so old
+that his adversary had forgotten it, or perhaps had never even
+heard it; but instantly the good gossips chanted the victorious
+refrain through their noses with voices shrill as a sea-mew’s, and
+the grave-digger, forced to surrender, went on to fresh attempts.
+
+It would have taken too long to wait for a decision of the victory.
+The bride’s party declared itself disposed to be merciful, provided
+that the bride were given a present worthy of her.
+
+Then began the song of the favors to a tune solemn as a church
+chant.
+
+The men without sang together in bass voices:
+
+      “‘Open the door, true love,
+        Open the door;
+      I have presents for you, love,
+        Oh, say not adieu, love.’”
+
+To this the women answered from within in falsetto, with mournful
+voices:
+
+      “‘My father is sorry, my mother is sad,
+      And I am a maiden too kind by far
+      At such an hour my gate to unbar.’”
+
+The men took up the first verse as far as the fourth line and
+modified it thus:
+
+      “‘And a handkerchief new, love.’”
+
+But, on behalf of the bride, the women answered in the same way as
+at first.
+
+For twenty couplets, at least, the men enumerated all the
+wedding-presents, always mentioning something new in the last line:
+a handsome apron, pretty ribbons, a cloth dress, laces, a golden
+cross, and even a hundred pins to complete the modest list of
+wedding-presents. The refusal of the women could not be shaken, but
+at length the men decided to speak of
+
+      “A good husband, too, love.”
+
+And the women answered, turning toward the bride and singing in
+unison with the men:
+
+      “‘Open the door, true love,
+        Open the door;
+      Here’s a sweetheart for you, love,
+        Pray let us enter, too, love.’”
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: (Ornament)]
+
+III
+
+The Wedding
+
+
+Immediately the hemp-dresser drew back the wooden bolt which barred
+the door within. At this time it was still the only fastening known
+in most of the dwellings of our hamlet. The groom’s band burst into
+the bride’s house, but not without a struggle; for the young men
+quartered within, and even the old hemp-dresser and the gossips,
+made it their duty to defend the hearth. The spit-bearer, upheld
+by his supporters, had to plant the roast before the fireplace.
+It was a regular battle, although people abstained from striking,
+and there was no anger shown in this struggle. But everybody was
+pushing and shoving so hard, and there was so much playful pride
+in this display of muscular strength, that the results might well
+have been serious, although they did not appear so across the
+laughs and songs. The poor old hemp-dresser, fighting like a lion,
+was pinned to the wall and squeezed by the crowd until his breath
+almost left him. More than one champion was upset and trodden under
+foot involuntarily; more than one hand, jammed against the spit,
+was covered with blood. These games are dangerous, and latterly the
+accidents have been so severe that our peasants have determined to
+allow the ceremony of the favors to fall into disuse; I believe we
+saw the last at the marriage of François Meillant, although there
+was no real struggle on that occasion.
+
+The battle was earnest enough, however, at Germain’s wedding. It
+was a point of honor on one side to invade, on the other to defend,
+Mother Guillette’s hearth. The great spit was twisted like a screw
+beneath the strong fists which fought for it. A pistol-shot set
+fire to a small quantity of hemp arranged in sheaves and laid on a
+wicker shelf near the ceiling. This incident created a diversion,
+and while some of the company crowded about to extinguish the
+sparks, the grave-digger, who had climbed unbeknown into the
+garret, came down the chimney and seized the spit, at the very
+moment when the ox-driver, who was defending it near the hearth,
+raised it above his head to prevent it from being torn away. Some
+time before the attack, the women had taken the precaution to put
+out the fire lest in the struggle somebody should fall in and get
+burned. The jocular grave-digger, in league with the ox-driver,
+grasped the trophy and tossed it easily across the andirons. It was
+done! Nobody might interfere. The grave-digger sprang to the middle
+of the room and lighted a few wisps of straw, which he placed about
+the spit under pretense of cooking the roast, for the goose was in
+pieces and the floor was strewn with its scattered fragments.
+
+Then there was a great deal of laughter and much boastful dispute.
+Everybody showed the marks of the blows he had received, and as it
+was often a friend’s hand that had struck them, there was no word
+of complaint nor of quarreling. The hemp-dresser, half flattened
+out, kept rubbing the small of his back and saying that, although
+it made small difference to him, he protested against the ruse of
+his friend, the grave-digger, and that if he had not been half
+dead, the hearth had never been captured so easily. The women swept
+the floor and order was restored. The table was covered with jugs
+of new wine. When the contestants had drunk together and taken
+breath, the bridegroom was led to the middle of the chamber, and,
+armed with a wand, he was obliged to submit to a fresh trial.
+
+During the struggle, the bride and three of her companions had been
+hidden by her mother, godmother, and aunts, who had made the four
+girls sit down in a remote corner of the room while they covered
+them with a large white cloth. Three friends of Marie’s height,
+with caps of a uniform size, were chosen, so that when they were
+enveloped from head to toe by the cloth it was impossible to tell
+them apart.
+
+The bridegroom might not touch them, except with the tip of his
+staff, and then merely to designate which he thought to be his
+wife. They allowed him time enough to make an examination with no
+other help than his eyes afforded, and the women, placed on either
+side, kept zealous watch lest cheating should occur. Should he
+guess wrong, he might not dance with his bride, but only with her
+he had chosen by mistake.
+
+When Germain stood in front of these ghosts wrapped in the same
+shroud, he feared he should make a wrong choice; and, in truth,
+that had happened to many another, so carefully and conscientiously
+were the precautions made. His heart beat loud. Little Marie did
+her best to breathe hard and shake the cloth a little, but her
+malicious companions followed her example, and kept poking the
+cloth with their fingers, so that there were as many mysterious
+signals as there were girls beneath the canopy. The square
+head-dresses upheld the cloth so evenly that it was impossible to
+discern the contour of a brow outlined by its folds.
+
+After ten minutes’ hesitation, Germain shut his eyes, commended his
+soul to God, and stretched out the wand at random. It touched the
+forehead of little Marie, who cast the cloth from her, and shouted
+with triumph. Then it was his right to kiss her, and lifting her
+in his strong arms, he bore her to the middle of the room, where
+together they opened the dance, which lasted until two in the
+morning. The company separated to meet again at eight. As many
+people had come from the country round, and as there were not beds
+enough for everybody, each of the village maidens took to her bed
+two or three other girls, while the men spread themselves pell-mell
+on the hay in the barn-loft. You can imagine well that they had
+little sleep, for they did nothing but wrestle and joke, and tell
+foolish stories. Properly, there were three sleepless nights at
+weddings, and these we cannot regret.
+
+At the time appointed for departure, when they had partaken of
+milk-soup, seasoned with a strong dose of pepper to stimulate the
+appetite,--for the wedding-feast gave promise of great bounty,--the
+guests assembled in the farm-yard. Since our parish had been
+abolished, we had to go half a league from home to receive the
+marriage blessing. It was cool and pleasant weather, but the
+roads were in such wretched condition that everybody was on
+horseback, and each man took a companion on his crupper, whether
+she were young or old. Germain started on the gray, and the mare,
+well-groomed, freshly shod, and decked out with ribbons, pranced
+about and snorted fire from her nostrils. The husbandman went to
+the cottage for his bride in company with his brother-in-law,
+Jacques, who rode the old gray, and carried Mother Guillette on
+the crupper, while Germain returned to the farm-yard in triumph,
+holding his dear little wife before him.
+
+Then the merry cavalcade set out, escorted by the children, who
+ran ahead and fired off their pistols to make the horses jump.
+Mother Maurice was seated in a small cart, with Germain’s three
+children and the fiddlers. They led the march to the sound of their
+instruments. Petit-Pierre was so handsome that his old grandmother
+was pride itself. But the eager child did not stay long at her
+side. During a moment’s halt made on the journey, before passing
+through a difficult piece of road, he slipped away and ran to beg
+his father to carry him in front on the gray.
+
+“No, no,” replied Germain, “that will call forth some disagreeable
+joke; we mustn’t do it.”
+
+“It’s little that I care what the people of Saint Chartier say,”
+said little Marie. “Take him up, Germain, please do; I shall be
+prouder of him than I am of my wedding-gown.”
+
+Germain yielded, and the pretty trio darted into the crowd borne by
+the triumphant gallop of the gray.
+
+And so it was; the people of Saint Chartier, although they were
+very sarcastic, and somewhat disdainful of the neighboring parishes
+which had been annexed to theirs, never thought of laughing when
+they saw such a handsome husband, such a lovely wife, and a child
+that a king’s wife might court. Petit-Pierre was all dressed in
+light blue cloth, with a smart red waistcoat so short that it
+descended scarcely below his chin. The village tailor had fitted
+his armholes so tight that he could not bring his two little hands
+together. But, oh, how proud he was! He wore a round hat, with a
+black-and-gold cord, and a peacock’s plume which stuck out proudly
+from a tuft of guinea feathers. A bunch of flowers, bigger than
+his head, covered his shoulder, and ribbons fluttered to his feet.
+The hemp-dresser, who was also the barber and hair-dresser of the
+district, had cut his hair evenly, by covering his head with a
+bowl, and clipping off the protruding locks, an infallible method
+for guiding the shears. Thus arrayed, the poor child was less
+poetic, certainly, than with his curls streaming in the wind, and
+his Saint John Baptist’s sheepskin about him; but he knew nothing
+of this, and everybody admired him and said that he had quite the
+air of a little man. His beauty triumphed over everything, for what
+is there over which the exceeding beauty of childhood could not
+triumph?
+
+His little sister, Solange, had, for the first time in her life,
+a peasant’s cap in place of the calico hood which little girls
+wear until they are two or three years old. And what a cap it was!
+Longer and larger than the poor little thing’s whole body. How
+beautiful she thought it! She dared not even turn her head; so she
+kept quite still and thought the people would take her for the
+bride.
+
+As for little Sylvain, he was still in long clothes, and, fast
+asleep on his grandmother’s knees, he did not even know what a
+wedding was.
+
+Germain looked at his children tenderly, and when they reached the
+town hall, he said to his bride:
+
+“Marie, I have come here with a happier heart than I had the day
+when I brought you home from the forest of Chanteloube, thinking
+that you could never love me. I took you in my arms to put you on
+the ground as I do here; but I thought that never again should we
+be mounted on the good gray with the child on our knees. I love you
+so dearly, I love these little creatures so dearly, I am so happy
+that you love me and that you love them, and that my family love
+you, and I love your mother so well and all my friends so well,
+and everybody else so well to-day, that I wish I had three or four
+hearts to fill all of them; for surely one is too small to hold so
+much love and so much happiness. It almost makes my stomach ache.”
+
+There was a crowd at the door of the town hall and another at
+the church to see the pretty bride. Why should we not tell about
+her dress? it became her so well. Her muslin cap, without spot
+and covered with embroidery, had lappets trimmed with lace. At
+that time peasant women never allowed a single lock to be seen,
+and, although they conceal beneath their caps splendid coils of
+hair tied up with tape to hold the coif in place, even to-day it
+would be thought a scandal and a shame for them to show themselves
+bareheaded to men. Nowadays, however, they allow a slender braid
+to appear over their foreheads, and this improves their appearance
+very much. Yet I regret the classic head-dress of my time; its
+spotless laces next the bare skin gave an effect of pristine purity
+which seemed to me very solemn; and when a face looked beautiful
+thus it was with a beauty of which nothing can express the charm
+and unaffected majesty.
+
+Little Marie wore her cap thus, and her forehead was so white and
+so pure that it defied the whiteness of linen to cast it in the
+shade. Although she had not closed an eye the night before, the
+morning air and, yet more, the joy within of a soul pure as the
+heaven, and, more than all, a small secret flame guarded with the
+modesty of girlhood, caused a bloom to mount to her cheeks delicate
+as the peach-blossom in the first beams of an April sun.
+
+Her white scarf, modestly crossed over her breast, left visible
+only the soft curves of a neck rounded like a turtle-dove’s; her
+home-made cloth gown of myrtle-green outlined her pretty figure,
+which looked already perfect, yet which must still grow and
+develop, for she was but seventeen. She wore an apron of violet
+silk with the bib our peasant women were so foolish as to suppress,
+which added so much elegance and decency to the breast. Nowadays
+they display their scarfs more proudly, but there is no longer in
+their dress that delicate flower of the purity of long ago, which
+made them look like Holbein’s virgins. They are more forward and
+more profuse in their courtesies. The good old custom used to be a
+kind of staid reserve which made their rare smile deeper and more
+ideal.
+
+During the offertory, after the fashion of the day, Germain placed
+the “thirteen”--that is to say, thirteen pieces of silver--in his
+bride’s hand. He slipped over her finger a silver ring of a form
+unchanged for centuries, but which is replaced for henceforth by
+the golden wedding-ring. As they walked out of church, Marie said
+in a low voice:
+
+“Is this really the ring I wanted? Is it the one I asked you for,
+Germain?”
+
+“Yes,” answered he, “my Catherine wore it on her finger when she
+died. There is but one ring for both my weddings.”
+
+“Thank you, Germain,” said the young woman, in a serious and
+impressive tone. “I shall die with it on, and if I go before you,
+you must keep it for the marriage of your little Solange.”
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: (Ornament)]
+
+IV
+
+The Cabbage
+
+
+They mounted and returned very quickly to Belair. The feast was
+bountiful, and, mingled with songs and dances, it lasted until
+midnight. For fourteen hours the old people did not leave the
+table. The grave-digger did the cooking, and did it very well. He
+was celebrated for this, and he would leave his fire to come in
+and dance and sing before and after every course. And yet this
+poor Father Bontemps was epileptic. Who would have thought it? He
+was fresh and strong, and merry as a young man. One day we found
+him in a ditch, struck down by his malady at nightfall. We carried
+him home with us, in a wheelbarrow, and we spent all night in
+caring for him. Three days afterward, he was at a wedding, singing
+like a thrush, jumping like a kid, and bustling about after his
+old fashion. When he left a marriage, he would go to dig a grave,
+and nail up a coffin. Then he would become very grave, and though
+nothing of this appeared in his gay humor, it left a melancholy
+impression which hastened the return of his attacks. His wife was
+paralyzed, and had not stirred from her chair for twenty years. His
+mother is living yet, at a hundred and forty, but he, poor man, so
+happy and good and amusing, was killed last year by falling from
+his loft to the sidewalk. Doubtless he died a victim to a fatal
+attack of his disease, and, as was his habit, had hidden in the
+hay, so as not to frighten and distress his family. In this tragic
+manner he ended a life strange as his disposition--a medley of
+things sad and mad, awful and gay; and, in the midst of all, his
+heart was ever good and his nature kind.
+
+Now we come to the third day of the wedding, the most curious of
+all, which is kept to-day in all its vigor. We shall not speak of
+the roast which they carry to the bridal bed; it is a very silly
+custom, and hurts the self-respect of the bride, while it tends to
+ruin the modesty of the attendant girls. Besides, I believe that it
+is practised in all the provinces, and does not belong peculiarly
+to our own.
+
+Just as the ceremony of the wedding favors is a symbol that the
+heart and home of the bride are won, that of the cabbage is a
+symbol of the fruitfulness of marriage. When breakfast is over on
+the day after the wedding, this fantastic representation begins.
+Originally of Gallic derivation, it has passed through primitive
+Christianity, and little by little it has become a kind of mystery,
+or droll morality-play of the Middle Ages.
+
+Two boys, the merriest and most intelligent of the company,
+disappear from breakfast, and after costuming themselves, return
+escorted by dogs, children, and pistol-shots. They represent a
+pair of beggars--husband and wife--dressed in rags. The husband is
+the filthier of the two; it is vice which has brought him so low;
+the wife is unhappy and degraded only through the misdeeds of her
+husband.
+
+They are called the gardener and the gardener’s wife, and they
+pretend it is their duty to guard and care for the sacred cabbage.
+The husband has several names, each with a meaning. Sometimes they
+call him the “scarecrow,” because his head is covered with straw or
+hemp, and because his legs and a portion of his body are surrounded
+with straw to hide his nakedness, ill concealed by his rags. He has
+also a great belly, or hump, constructed of straw or hay underneath
+his blouse. Then he is known as the “ragamuffin,” on account of his
+covering of rags. Lastly he is termed the “infidel,” and this is
+most significant of all, because by his cynicism and his debauchery
+he is supposed to typify the opposite of every Christian virtue.
+
+He comes with his face all smeared with soot and the lees of
+wine, and sometimes made yet more hideous by a grotesque mask. An
+earthenware cup, notched and broken, or an old sabot attached to
+his girdle by a cord, shows that he has come to beg for alms of
+wine. Nobody refuses him, and he pretends to drink; then he pours
+the wine on the ground by way of libation. At every step he falls,
+rolls in the mud, and feigns to be a prey to the most shameful
+drunkenness. His poor wife runs after him, picks him up, calls for
+help, arranges his hempen locks, which straggle forth in unkempt
+wisps from beneath his filthy hat, sheds tears over her husband’s
+degradation, and pours forth pathetic reproaches.
+
+“Wretched man,” she cries, “see the misery to which your wickedness
+has brought us. I have to spend all my time sewing and working
+for you, mending your clothes. You tear and bedraggle yourself
+incessantly. You have eaten up all my little property; our six
+children lie on straw, and we are living in a stable with the
+beasts. Here we are forced to beg for alms, and, besides, you are
+so ugly and vile and despicable that very soon they will be tossing
+us bread as if we were dogs. Ah, my poor people, take pity on us!
+Take pity on me! I haven’t deserved my lot, and never had woman
+a more dirty and detestable husband. Help me to pick him up, else
+the wagons will run over him as they run over broken bottles, and
+I shall be a widow, and that will end by killing me with grief,
+though all the world says it would be an excellent riddance for
+me.” Such is the part of the gardener’s wife, and her continued
+lamentations last during the entire play. For it is a genuine
+spontaneous comedy acted on the spur of the moment in the open
+air, along the roads and across the fields, aided by every chance
+occurrence that presents itself. Everybody shares in the acting,
+people within the wedding-party and people without, wayfarers and
+dwellers in houses, for three or four hours of the day, as we
+shall see. The theme is always the same, but the variations are
+infinite; and it is here that we can see the instinct of mimicry,
+the abundance of droll ideas, the fluency, the wit at repartee, and
+even the natural eloquence of our peasants.
+
+The rôle of gardener’s wife is intrusted commonly to a slender
+man, beardless and fresh of face, who can give a great appearance
+of truth to his personification and plays the burlesque despair
+naturally enough to make people sad and glad at once, as they are
+in real life. These thin, beardless men are not rare among us, and,
+strangely enough, they are sometimes most remarkable for their
+muscular strength.
+
+When the wife’s misfortunes have been explained, the young men of
+the company try to persuade her to leave her drunken husband and
+to amuse herself with them. They offer her their arms and drag her
+away. Little by little she gives way; her spirits rise, and she
+begins to run about, first with one and then with another, and
+grows more scandalous in her behavior: a fresh “morality”; the
+ill-conduct of the husband excites and aggravates the evil in the
+wife.
+
+Then the “infidel” wakes from his drunkenness. He looks about for
+his companion, arms himself with a rope and a stick and rushes
+after her. They make him run, they hide, they pass the wife from
+one to another, they try to divert her attention and to deceive
+her jealous spouse. His friends try to get him drunk. At length he
+catches his unfaithful wife, and wishes to beat her. What is truest
+and most carefully portrayed in this play is that the jealous
+husband never attacks the men who carry off his wife. He is very
+polite and prudent with them, and wishes only to take vengeance
+on the sinning woman, because she is supposed to be too feeble to
+offer resistance.
+
+At the moment, however, when he raises his stick and prepares his
+cord to strike the delinquent, all the men in the party interpose
+and throw themselves between husband and wife.
+
+“Don’t strike her! Never strike your wife,” is the formula repeated
+to satiety during these scenes. They disarm the husband, and force
+him to pardon and to kiss his wife, and soon he pretends to love
+her better than ever. He walks along, his arm linked in hers,
+singing and dancing until, in a new access of drunkenness, he rolls
+upon the ground, and then begin all over again the lamentations
+of the wife, her discouragements, her pretended unfaithfulness,
+her husband’s jealousy, the interference of the neighbors, and
+the reconciliation. In all this there is a simple and even coarse
+lesson, which, though it savors strongly of its Middle-Age origin,
+does not fail to fix its impression if not on the married folk,
+who are too loving or too sensible to have need of it, at least
+upon the children and the young people. The “infidel,” racing after
+young girls and pretending to wish to kiss them, frightens and
+disgusts them to such a degree that they fly in unaffected terror.
+His dirty face and his great stick, harmless as it is, make the
+children shriek aloud. It is the comedy of customs in their most
+elementary but their most striking state.
+
+When this farce is well under way, people make ready to hunt
+for the cabbage. They bring a stretcher and place upon it the
+“infidel,” armed with a spade, a cord, and a large basket. Four
+powerful men raise him on their shoulders. His wife follows on
+foot, and after her come the “elders” in a body with serious and
+thoughtful looks; then the wedding-march begins by couples to
+a step tuned to music. Pistol-shots begin anew, and dogs bark
+louder than ever at the sight of the filthy “infidel” borne aloft
+in triumph. The children swing incense in derision with sabots
+fastened at the end of a cord.
+
+But why this ovation to an object so repulsive? They are marching
+to the capture of the sacred cabbage, emblem of the fruitfulness of
+marriage, and it is this drunkard alone who can bear the symbolic
+plant in his hand. Doubtless, there is in it a pre-Christian
+mystery which recalls the Saturnalian feasts or some rout of the
+Bacchanals. Perhaps this “infidel,” who is, at the same time,
+preeminently a gardener, is none other than Priapus himself, god of
+gardens and of drunkenness, a divinity who must have been pure and
+serious in his origin as is the mystery of birth, but who has been
+degraded bit by bit through license of manners and distraction of
+thought.
+
+However this may be, the triumphal procession arrives at the
+bride’s house, and enters the garden. Then they select the choicest
+cabbage, and this is not done very quickly, for the old people
+keep consulting and disputing interminably, each one pleading for
+the cabbage he thinks most suitable. They put it to vote, and when
+the choice is made the gardener fastens his cord to the stalk, and
+moves away as far as the size of the garden permits. The gardener’s
+wife takes care that the sacred vegetable shall not be hurt in its
+fall. The wits of the wedding, the hemp-dresser, the grave-digger,
+the carpenter, and the sabot-maker, form a ring about the cabbage,
+for men who do not till the soil, but pass their lives in other
+people’s houses, are thought to be, and are really, wittier and
+more talkative than simple farmhands. One digs, with a spade, a
+ditch deep enough to uproot an oak. Another places on his nose a
+pair of wooden or cardboard spectacles. He fulfils the duties of
+“engineer,” walks up and down, constructs a plan, stares at the
+workmen through his glasses, plays the pedant, cries out that
+everything will be spoiled, has the work stopped and begun afresh
+as his fancy directs, and makes the whole performance as long
+and ridiculous as he can. This is an addition to the formula of
+an ancient ceremony held in mockery of theorists in general, for
+peasants despise them royally, or from hatred of the surveyors who
+decide boundaries and regulate taxes, or of the workmen employed
+on bridges and causeways, who transform commons into highways, and
+suppress old abuses which the peasants love. Be this as it may,
+this character in the comedy is called the “geometrician,” and does
+his best to make himself unbearable to those who are toiling with
+pickaxe and shovel.
+
+After a quarter of an hour spent in mummery, and difficulties
+raised in order to avoid cutting the roots, and to transplant the
+cabbage without injury, while shovelfuls of dirt are tossed into
+the faces of the onlookers,--so much the worse for him who does not
+retreat in time, for were he bishop or prince he must receive the
+baptism of earth,--the “infidel” pulls the rope, the “infidel’s
+wife” holds her apron, and the cabbage falls majestically amidst
+the applause of the spectators. Then a basket is brought, and
+the “infidel” pair plant the cabbage therein with every care and
+precaution. They surround it with fresh earth, and support it with
+sticks and strings, such as city florists use for their splendid
+potted camellias; they fix red apples to the points of the sticks,
+and twist sprigs of thyme, sage, and laurel all about them; they
+bedeck the whole with ribbons and streamers; they place the trophy
+upon the stretcher with the “infidel,” whose duty it is to maintain
+its equilibrium and preserve it from harm; and, at length, they
+move away from the garden in good order and in marching step.
+
+But when they are about to pass the gate, and again when they enter
+the yard of the bridegroom’s house, an imaginary obstacle blocks
+the way. The bearers of the burden stagger, utter loud cries,
+retreat, advance once more, and, as though crushed by a resistless
+force, they pretend to sink beneath its weight. While this is going
+on, the bystanders shout loudly, exciting and steadying this human
+team.
+
+“Slowly, slowly, my child. There, there, courage! Look out! Be
+patient! Lower your head; the door is too low! Close up; it’s too
+narrow! A little more to the left; now to the right; on with you;
+don’t be afraid; you’re almost there.”
+
+Thus it is that in years of plentiful harvest, the ox-cart, loaded
+to overflowing with hay or corn, is too broad or too high to enter
+the barn door. Thus it is that the driver shouts at the strong
+beasts, to restrain them or to urge them on; thus it is that with
+skill and mighty efforts they force this mountain of riches beneath
+the rustic arch of triumph. It is, above all, the last load,
+called “the cart of sheaves,” which requires these precautions,
+for this is a rural festival, and the last sheaf lifted from the
+last furrow is placed on the top of the cart-load ornamented with
+ribbons and flowers, while the foreheads of the oxen and the whip
+of the driver are decorated also. The triumphant and toilsome entry
+of the cabbage into the house is a symbol of the prosperity and
+fruitfulness it represents.
+
+Safe within the bridegroom’s yard, the cabbage is taken from its
+stretcher and borne to the topmost peak of the house or barn.
+Whether it be a chimney, a gable, or a dove-cote that crowns the
+roof, the burden must, at any risk, be carried to the very highest
+point of the building. The “infidel” accompanies it as far as this,
+sets it down securely, and waters it with a great pitcher of wine,
+while a salvo of pistol-shots and demonstrations of joy from the
+“infidel’s wife” proclaim its inauguration.
+
+Without delay, the same ceremony is repeated all over again.
+Another cabbage is dug from the garden of the husband and is
+carried with the same formalities and laid upon the roof which his
+wife has deserted to follow him. These trophies remain in their
+places until the wind and the rain destroy the baskets and carry
+away the cabbage. Yet their lives are long enough to give some
+chance of fulfilment to the prophecies which the old men and women
+make with bows and courtesies.
+
+“Beautiful cabbage,” they say, “live and flourish that our young
+bride may have a fine baby before a year is over; for if you die
+too quickly it is a sign of barrenness, and you will stick up there
+like an ill omen.”
+
+The day is already far gone when all these things are accomplished.
+All that remains undone is to take home the godfathers and
+godmothers of the newly married couple. When the so-called parents
+dwell at a distance, they are accompanied by the music and the
+whole wedding procession as far as the limits of the parish; there
+they dance anew on the highroad, and everybody kisses them good-by.
+The “infidel” and his wife are then washed and dressed decently, if
+the fatigue of their parts has not already driven them away to take
+a nap.
+
+Everybody was still dancing and singing and eating in the Town Hall
+of Belair at midnight on this third day of the wedding when Germain
+was married. The old men at table could not stir, and for good
+reason. They recovered neither their legs nor their wits until dawn
+on the morrow. While they were regaining their dwellings, silently
+and with uncertain steps, Germain, proud and active, went out to
+hitch his oxen, leaving his young wife to slumber until daylight.
+The lark, caroling as it mounted to the skies, seemed to him the
+voice of his heart returning thanks to Providence. The hoar-frost,
+sparkling on the leafless bushes, seemed to him the whiteness of
+April flowers that comes before the budding leaves. Everything in
+nature was laughing and happy for him. Little Pierre had laughed
+and jumped so much the evening before that he did not come to
+help lead his oxen; but Germain was glad to be alone. He fell on
+his knees in the furrow he was about to plow afresh, and said his
+morning prayer with such a burst of feeling that two tears rolled
+down his cheeks, still moist with sweat.
+
+Afar off he heard the songs of the boys from neighboring villages,
+who were starting on their return home, singing again in their
+hoarse voices the happy tunes of the night before.
+
+
+THE END.
+
+
+
+
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+<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The devil's pool, by George Sand</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
+at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you
+are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the
+country where you are located before using this eBook.
+</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The devil's pool</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: George Sand<br />
+Translators: Jane Minot Sedgwick and Ellery Sedgwick<br />
+Etcher: E. Abot</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: July 4, 2007 [eBook #21993]<br />
+[Most recently updated: September 7, 2022]</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by David Widger</div>
+<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEVIL'S POOL ***</div>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="figcenter illowp80" id="cover">
+  <img class="w80" src="images/cover.jpg" alt="cover created by the transcriber" />
+</div>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<p class="fs240 center noindent p2 p2bot">THE DEVIL’S POOL</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+<div class="figcenter illowp80" id="frontispiece">
+  <img class="w80" src="images/frontispiece.jpg" alt="Frontispiece" />
+</div>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+<h1>THE DEVIL’S POOL</h1>
+
+<p class="center p2 p2bot noindent"><span class="fs100">By</span><br />
+<span class="fs120">George Sand</span></p>
+
+<p class="center p2 p2bot noindent"><span class="fs100">TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY</span><br />
+<span class="fs120">JANE MINOT SEDGWICK</span><br />
+<span class="fs100">AND</span><br />
+<span class="fs120">ELLERY SEDGWICK</span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter illowe5" id="title1">
+  <img class="w70" src="images/title1.jpg" alt="(Ornament)" />
+</div>
+
+<p class="center p2 p2bot noindent">WITH AN ETCHING BY E. ABOT</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter illowe11" id="title2">
+  <img class="w70" src="images/title2.jpg" alt="(Publisher colophon)" />
+</div>
+
+
+<p class="center p2 p2bot noindent"><span class="fs120">BOSTON<br />
+LITTLE, BROWN, &amp; CO.</span><br />
+<span class="fs100">1901</span></p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+<p class="center p2 p2bot noindent">Copyright, 1894, by<br />
+<span class="smcap">George H. Richmond &amp; Co.</span></p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="Table_of_Contents">Table of Contents</h2>
+
+<table class="autotable center2">
+<tr>
+<td class="tdc">Chapter</td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#I">I</a></td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160; &#160;The Tillage of the Soil</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#II">II</a></td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160; &#160;Father Maurice</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#III">III</a></td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160; &#160;Germain, the Skilled Husbandman</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#IV">IV</a></td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160; &#160;Mother Guillette</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#V">V</a></td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160; &#160;Petit-Pierre</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#VI">VI</a></td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160; &#160;On the Heath</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#VII">VII</a></td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160; &#160;Underneath the Big Oaks</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#VIII">VIII</a></td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160; &#160;The Evening Prayer</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#IX">IX</a></td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160; &#160;Despite the Cold</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#X">X</a></td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160; &#160;Beneath the Stars</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#XI">XI</a></td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160; &#160;The Belle of the Village</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#XII">XII</a></td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160; &#160;The Master</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#XIII">XIII</a></td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160; &#160;The Old Woman</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#XIV">XIV</a></td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160; &#160;The Return to the Farm</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#XV">XV</a></td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160; &#160;Mother Maurice</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#XVI">XVI</a></td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160; &#160;Little Marie</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160; &#160;Appendix</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Ia">I</a></td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160; &#160;A Country Wedding</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#IIa">II</a></td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160; &#160;The Wedding Favors</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#IIIa">III</a></td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160; &#160;The Wedding</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#IVa">IV</a></td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160; &#160;The Cabbage</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter illowp60" id="intro">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/intro.jpg" alt="(Ornament)" />
+</div>
+
+<p class="fs175 center noindent p2 p3bot">THE DEVIL’S POOL</p>
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_AUTHOR_TO_THE_READER">THE AUTHOR TO THE READER</h2>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent0"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">A la sueur de ton visaige</span>,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Tu gagnerais ta pauvre vie</span>.</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Après long travail et usaige</span>,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Voicy la <i>mort</i> qui te convie.</span><a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+<p class="drop-capy p2">This quaint old French verse, written under one of Holbein’s pictures,
+is profoundly melancholy. The engraving represents a laborer driving his
+plow through the middle of a field. Beyond him stretches a vast horizon,
+dotted with wretched huts; the sun is sinking behind the hill. It is the
+end of a hard day’s work. The peasant is old, bent, and clothed in rags.
+He is urging onward a team of four thin and exhausted horses; the
+plowshare sinks into a stony and ungrateful soil. One being only is
+active and alert in this scene of toil and sorrow. It is a fantastic
+creature. A skeleton armed with a whip, who acts as plowboy to the old
+laborer, and running along through the furrow beside the terrified
+horses, goads them on. This is the specter Death, whom Holbein has
+introduced allegorically into that series of religious and philosophic
+subjects, at once melancholy and grotesque, entitled “The Dance of
+Death.”</p>
+
+<p>In this collection, or rather this mighty composition, where Death, who
+plays his part on every page, is the connecting link and predominating
+thought, Holbein has called up kings, popes, lovers, gamesters,
+drunkards, nuns, courtesans, thieves, warriors, monks, Jews, and
+travelers,—all the people of his time and our own; and everywhere the
+specter Death is among them, taunting, threatening, and triumphing. He
+is absent from one picture only, where Lazarus, lying on a dunghill at
+the rich man’s door, declares that the specter has no terrors for him;
+probably because he has nothing to lose, and his existence is already a
+life in death.</p>
+
+<p>Is there comfort in this stoical thought of the half-pagan Christianity
+of the Renaissance, and does it satisfy religious souls? The upstart,
+the rogue, the tyrant, the rake, and all those haughty sinners who make
+an ill use of life, and whose steps are dogged by Death, will be surely
+punished; but can the reflection that death is no evil make amends for
+the long hardships of the blind man, the beggar, the madman, and the
+poor peasant? No! An inexorable sadness, an appalling fatality brood
+over the artist’s work. It is like a bitter curse, hurled against the
+fate of humanity.</p>
+
+<p>Holbein’s faithful delineation of the society in which he lived is,
+indeed, painful satire. His attention was engrossed by crime and
+calamity; but what shall we, who are artists of a later date, portray?
+Shall we look to find the reward of the human beings of to-day in
+the contemplation of death, and shall we invoke it as the penalty of
+unrighteousness and the compensation of suffering?</p>
+
+<p>No, henceforth, our business is not with death, but with life. We
+believe no longer in the nothingness of the grave, nor in safety bought
+with the price of a forced renunciation; life must be enjoyed in order
+to be fruitful. Lazarus must leave his dunghill, so that the poor need
+no longer exult in the death of the rich. All must be made happy, that
+the good fortune of a few may not be a crime and a curse. As the laborer
+sows his wheat, he must know that he is helping forward the work of
+life, instead of rejoicing that Death walks at his side. We may
+no longer consider death as the chastisement of prosperity or the
+consolation of distress, for God has decreed it neither as the
+punishment nor the compensation of life. Life has been blessed by Him,
+and it is no longer permissible for us to leave the grave as the only
+refuge for those whom we are unwilling to make happy.</p>
+
+<p>There are some artists of our own day, who, after a serious survey of
+their surroundings, take pleasure in painting misery, the sordidness of
+poverty, and the dunghill of Lazarus. This may belong to the domain of
+art and philosophy; but by depicting poverty as so hideous, so degraded,
+and sometimes so vicious and criminal, do they gain their end, and is
+that end as salutary as they would wish? We dare not pronounce judgment.
+They may answer that they terrify the unjust rich man by pointing out to
+him the yawning pit that lies beneath the frail covering of wealth; just
+as in the time of the Dance of Death, they showed him his gaping grave,
+and Death standing ready to fold him in an impure embrace. Now, they
+show him the thief breaking open his doors, and the murderer stealthily
+watching his sleep. We confess we cannot understand how we can reconcile
+him to the human nature he despises, or make him sensible of the
+sufferings of the poor wretch whom he dreads, by showing him this
+wretch in the guise of the escaped convict or the nocturnal burglar. The
+hideous phantom Death, under the repulsive aspect in which he has been
+represented by Holbein and his predecessors, gnashing his teeth and
+playing the fiddle, has been powerless to convert the wicked and console
+their victims. And does not our literature employ the same means as the
+artists of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance?</p>
+
+<p>The revelers of Holbein fill their glasses in a frenzy to dispel the
+idea of Death, who is their cup-bearer, though they do not see him. The
+unjust rich of our own day demand cannon and barricades to drive out
+the idea of an insurrection of the people which Art shows them as slowly
+working in the dark, getting ready to burst upon the State. The Church
+of the Middle Ages met the terrors of the great of the earth with the
+sale of indulgences. The government of to-day soothes the uneasiness of
+the rich by exacting from them large sums for the support of policemen,
+jailors, bayonets, and prisons.</p>
+
+<p>Albert Durer, Michael Angelo, Holbein, Callot, and Goya have made
+powerful satires on the evils of their times and countries, and their
+immortal works are historical documents of unquestionable value. We
+shall not refuse to artists the right to probe the wounds of society
+and lay them bare to our eyes; but is the only function of art still
+to threaten and appall? In the literature of the mysteries of iniquity,
+which talent and imagination have brought into fashion, we prefer the
+sweet and gentle characters, which can attempt and effect conversions,
+to the melodramatic villains, who inspire terror; for terror never cures
+selfishness, but increases it.</p>
+
+<p>We believe that the mission of art is a mission of sentiment and love,
+that the novel of to-day should take the place of the parable and the
+fable of early times, and that the artist has a larger and more poetic
+task than that of suggesting certain prudential and conciliatory
+measures for the purpose of diminishing the fright caused by his
+pictures. His aim should be to render attractive the objects he has at
+heart, and, if necessary, I have no objection to his embellishing them
+a little. Art is not the study of positive reality, but the search for
+ideal truth, and the “Vicar of Wakefield” was a more useful and healthy
+book than the “Paysan Perverti,” or the “Liaisons Dangereuses.”</p>
+
+<p>Forgive these reflections of mine, kind reader, and let them stand as
+a preface, for there will be no other to the little story I am going
+to relate to you. My tale is to be so short and so simple, that I felt
+obliged to make you my apologies for it beforehand, by telling you what
+I think of the literature of terror.</p>
+
+<p>I have allowed myself to be drawn into this digression for the sake of a
+laborer; and it is the story of a laborer which I have been meaning to
+tell you, and which I shall now tell you at once.</p>
+
+
+<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTE:</h3>
+<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a></p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent0">In toil and sorrow thou shalt eat</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">The bitter bread of poverty.</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">After the burden and the heat,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Lo! it is Death who calls for thee.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter illowp60" id="chapter_i">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/chapter_i.jpg" alt="(Ornament)" />
+</div>
+
+<h2 class="nobreak"> <a id="I"></a>I</h2>
+<p class="center noindent fs120 bold">The Tillage of the Soil</p>
+
+<p class="drop-capy p2">I had just been looking long and sadly at Holbein’s plowman, and was
+walking through the fields, musing on rustic life and the destiny of
+the husbandman. It is certainly tragic for him to spend his days and his
+strength delving in the jealous earth, that so reluctantly yields up her
+rich treasures when a morsel of coarse black bread, at the end of the
+day’s work, is the sole reward and profit to be reaped from such arduous
+toil. The wealth of the soil, the harvests, the fruits, the splendid
+cattle that grow sleek and fat in the luxuriant grass, are the property
+of the few, and but instruments of the drudgery and slavery of the many.
+The man of leisure seldom loves, for their own sake, the fields and
+meadows, the landscape, or the noble animals which are to be converted
+into gold for his use. He comes to the country for his health or for
+change of air, but goes back to town to spend the fruit of his vassal’s
+labor.</p>
+
+<p>On the other hand, the peasant is too abject, too wretched, and too
+fearful of the future to enjoy the beauty of the country and the charms
+of pastoral life. To him, also, the yellow harvest-fields, the rich
+meadows, the fine cattle represent bags of gold; but he knows that
+only an infinitesimal part of their contents, insufficient for his daily
+needs, will ever fall to his share. Yet year by year he must fill those
+accursed bags, to please his master and buy the right of living on his
+land in sordid wretchedness.</p>
+
+<p>Yet nature is eternally young, beautiful,
+and generous. She pours forth poetry and beauty on all creatures and
+all plants that are allowed free development.
+She owns the secret of happiness, of which no one has ever robbed her.
+The happiest of men would be he who, knowing the full meaning of his
+labor, should, while working with his hands, find his happiness and his
+freedom in the exercise of his intelligence, and, having his heart in
+unison with his brain, should at once understand his own work and love
+that of God. The artist has such delights as these in contemplating and
+reproducing the beauties of nature; but if his heart be true and tender,
+his pleasure is disturbed when he sees the miseries of the men who
+people this paradise of earth. True happiness will be theirs when mind,
+heart, and hand shall work in concert in the sight of Heaven, and there
+shall be a sacred harmony between God’s goodness and the joys of his
+creatures. Then, instead of the pitiable and frightful figure of Death
+stalking, whip in hand, across the fields, the painter of allegories
+may place beside the peasant a radiant angel, sowing the blessed grain
+broadcast in the smoking furrow.</p>
+
+<p>The dream of a serene, free, poetic,
+laborious, and simple life for the tiller of the soil is not so
+impossible that we should banish it as a chimera. The sweet, sad words
+of Virgil: “Oh, happy the peasants of the field, if they knew their own
+blessings!” is a regret, but, like all regrets, it is also a prophecy.
+The day will come when the laborer too may be an artist, and may at
+least feel what is beautiful, if he cannot express it,—a matter of far
+less importance. Do not we know that this mysterious poetic intuition
+is already his, in the form of instinct and vague reverie? Among those
+peasants who possess some of the comforts of life, and whose moral
+and intellectual development is not entirely stifled by extreme
+wretchedness, pure happiness that can be felt and appreciated exists
+in the elementary stage; and, moreover, since poets have already raised
+their voices out of the lap of pain and of weariness, why should we say
+that the labor of the hands excludes the working of the soul? Without
+doubt this exclusion is the common result of excessive toil and of deep
+misery; but let it not be said that when men shall work moderately and
+usefully there will be nothing but bad workers and bad poets. The man
+who draws in noble joy from the poetic feeling is a true poet, though he
+has never written a verse all his life.</p>
+
+<p>My thoughts had flown in this direction, without my perceiving that
+my confidence in the capacity of man for education was strengthened by
+external influences. I was walking along the edge of a field, which some
+peasants were preparing to sow. The space was vast as that in Holbein’s
+picture; the landscape, too, was vast and framed in a great sweep of
+green, slightly reddened by the approach of autumn. Here and there in
+the great russet field, slender rivulets of water left in the furrows by
+the late rains sparkled in the sunlight like silver threads. The day was
+clear and mild, and the soil, freshly cleft by the plowshare, sent up
+a light steam. At the other extremity of the field, an old man, whose
+broad shoulders and stern face recalled Holbein’s plowman, but whose
+clothes carried no suggestion of poverty, was gravely driving his plow
+of antique shape, drawn by two placid oxen, true patriarchs of the
+meadow, tall and rather thin, with pale yellow coats and long, drooping
+horns. They were those old workers who, through long habit, have grown
+to be <i>brothers</i>, as they are called in our country, and who, when one
+loses the other, refuse to work with a new comrade, and pine away with
+grief. People who are unfamiliar with the country call the love of the
+ox for his yoke-fellow a fable. Let them come and see in the corner of
+the stable one of these poor beasts, thin and wasted, restlessly lashing
+his lean flanks with his tail, violently breathing with mingled terror
+and disdain on the food offered him, his eyes always turned toward the
+door, scratching with his hoof the empty place at his side, sniffing the
+yokes and chains which his fellow used to wear, and incessantly calling
+him with melancholy lowings. The ox-herd will say: “There is a pair
+of oxen gone; this one will work no more, for his brother is dead. We
+ought to fatten him for the market, but he will not eat, and will soon
+starve himself to death.”</p>
+
+<p>The old laborer worked slowly, silently, and
+without waste of effort His docile team were in no greater haste than
+he; but, thanks to the undistracted steadiness of his toil and the
+judicious expenditure of his strength, his furrow was as soon plowed as
+that of his son, who was driving, at some distance from him, four less
+vigorous oxen through a more stubborn and stony piece of ground.</p>
+
+<p>My attention was next caught by a fine spectacle, a truly noble subject
+for a painter. At the other end of the field a fine-looking youth was
+driving a magnificent team of four pairs of young oxen, through whose
+somber coats glanced a ruddy, glow-like flame. They had the short, curly
+heads that belong to the wild bull, the same large, fierce eyes and
+jerky movements; they worked in an abrupt, nervous way that showed how
+they still rebelled against the yoke and goad, and trembled with anger
+as they obeyed the authority so recently imposed. They were what is
+called “newly yoked” oxen. The man who drove them had to clear a corner
+of the field that had formerly been given up to pasture, and was
+filled with old tree-stumps; and his youth and energy, and his eight
+half-broken animals, hardly sufficed for the Herculean task.</p>
+
+<p>A child of six or seven years old, lovely as an angel, wearing round his
+shoulders, over his blouse, a sheepskin that made him look like a little
+Saint John the Baptist out of a Renaissance picture, was running along
+in the furrow beside the plow, pricking the flanks of the oxen with a
+long, light goad but slightly sharpened. The spirited animals quivered
+under the child’s light touch, making their yokes and head-bands creak,
+and shaking the pole violently. Whenever a root stopped the advance
+of the plowshare, the laborer would call every animal by name in his
+powerful voice, trying to calm rather than to excite them; for the oxen,
+irritated by the sudden resistance, bounded, pawed the ground with their
+great cloven hoofs, and would have jumped aside and dragged the plow
+across the fields, if the young man had not kept the first four in order
+with his voice and goad, while the child controlled the four others.
+The little fellow shouted too, but the voice which he tried to make of
+terrible effect, was as sweet as his angelic face. The whole scene was
+beautiful in its grace and strength; the landscape, the man, the child,
+the oxen under the yoke; and in spite of the mighty struggle by which
+the earth was subdued, a deep feeling of peace and sweetness reigned
+over all. Each time that an obstacle was surmounted and the plow resumed
+its even, solemn progress, the laborer, whose pretended violence was
+but a trial of his strength, and an outlet for his energy, instantly
+regained that serenity which is the right of simple souls, and looked
+with fatherly pleasure toward his child, who turned to smile back at
+him. Then the young father would raise his manly voice in the solemn
+and melancholy chant that ancient tradition transmits, not indeed to all
+plowmen indiscriminately, but to those who are most perfect in the art
+of exciting and sustaining the spirit of cattle while at work. This
+song, which was probably sacred in its origin, and to which mysterious
+influences must once have been attributed, is still thought to
+possess the virtue of putting animals on their mettle, allaying their
+irritation, and of beguiling the weariness of their long, hard toil.
+It is not enough to guide them skilfully, to trace a perfectly straight
+furrow, and to lighten their labor by raising the plowshare or driving
+it into the earth; no man can be a consummate husbandman who does not
+know how to sing to his oxen, and that is an art that requires taste
+and especial gifts.</p>
+
+<p>To tell the truth, this chant is only a recitative,
+broken off and taken up at pleasure. Its irregular form and its
+intonations that violate all the rules of musical art make it impossible
+to describe.</p>
+
+<p>But it is none the less a noble song, and so appropriate is it to the
+nature of the work it accompanies, to the gait of the oxen, to the peace
+of the fields, and to the simplicity of the men who sing it, that no
+genius unfamiliar with the tillage of the earth, and no man except an
+accomplished laborer of our part of the country, could repeat it. At the
+season of the year when there is no work or stir afoot except that of
+the plowman, this strong, sweet refrain rises like the voice of the
+breeze, to which the key it is sung in gives it some resemblance. Each
+phrase ends with a long trill, the final note of which is held with
+incredible strength of breath, and rises a quarter of a tone, sharping
+systematically. It is barbaric, but possesses an unspeakable charm, and
+anybody, once accustomed to hear it, cannot conceive of another song
+taking its place at the same hour and in the same place, without
+striking a discord.</p>
+
+<p>So it was that I had before my eyes a picture the reverse of that of
+Holbein, although the scene was similar. Instead of a wretched old man,
+a young and active one; instead of a team of weary and emaciated horses,
+four yoke of robust and fiery oxen; instead of death, a beautiful
+child; instead of despair and destruction, energy and the possibility of
+happiness.</p>
+
+<p>Then the old French verse, “À la sueur de ton visaige,” etc., and
+Virgil’s “O fortunatos . . . agricolas,” returned to my mind, and seeing
+this lovely child and his father, under such poetic conditions, and with
+so much grace and strength, accomplish a task full of such grand
+and solemn suggestions, I was conscious of deep pity and involuntary
+respect. Happy the peasant of the fields! Yes, and so too should I be
+in his place, if my arm and voice could be endowed with sudden strength,
+and I could help to make Nature fruitful, and sing of her gifts, without
+ceasing to see with my eyes or understand with my brain harmonious
+colors and sounds, delicate shades and graceful outlines; in short, the
+mysterious beauty of all things. And above all, if my heart continued
+to beat in concert with the divine sentiment that presided over the
+immortal sublimity of creation.</p>
+
+<p>But, alas! this man has never understood the mystery of beauty; this
+child will never understand it. God forbid that I should not think them
+superior to the animals which are subject to them, or that they have not
+moments of rapturous insight that soothe their toil and lull their cares
+to sleep. I see the seal of the Lord upon their noble brows, for they
+were born to inherit the earth far more truly than those who have bought
+and paid for it. The proof that they feel this is that they cannot be
+exiled with impunity, that they love the soil they have watered with
+their tears, and that the true peasant dies of homesickness under the
+arms of a soldier far from his native field. But he lacks some of my
+enjoyments, those pure delights which should be his by right, as a
+workman in that immense temple which the sky only is vast enough
+to embrace. He lacks the consciousness of his sentiment. Those who
+condemned him to slavery from his mother’s womb, being unable to rob him
+of his vague dreams, took away from him the power of reflection.</p>
+
+<p>Yet, imperfect being that he is, sentenced to eternal childhood, he is
+nobler than the man in whom knowledge has stifled feeling. Do not set
+yourselves above him, you who believe yourselves invested with a lawful
+and inalienable right to rule over him, for your terrible mistake shows
+that your brain has destroyed your heart, and that you are the blindest
+and most incomplete of men! I love the simplicity of his soul more than
+the false lights of yours; and if I had to narrate the story of his
+life, the pleasure I should take in bringing out the tender and touching
+side of it would be greater than your merit in painting the degradation
+and contempt into which he is cast by your social code.</p>
+
+<p>I knew the young man and the beautiful child; I knew their history, for
+they had a history. Everybody has his own, and could make the romance
+of his life interesting, if he could but understand it. Although but a
+peasant and a laborer, Germain had always been aware of his duties and
+affections. He had related them to me clearly and ingenuously, and I had
+listened with interest. After some time spent in watching him plow, it
+occurred to me that I might write his story, though that story were as
+simple, as straightforward, and unadorned as the furrow he was tracing.</p>
+
+<p>Next year that furrow will be filled and covered by a fresh one. Thus
+disappear most of the footprints made by man in the field of human life.
+A little earth obliterates them, and the furrows we have dug succeed one
+another like graves in a cemetery. Is not the furrow of the laborer of
+as much value as that of the idler, even if that idler, by some absurd
+chance, have made a little noise in the world, and left behind him an
+abiding name?</p>
+
+<p>I mean, if possible, to save from oblivion the furrow of Germain,
+the skilled husbandman. He will never know nor care, but I shall take
+pleasure in my talk.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter illowp60" id="chapter_ii">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/chapter_ii.jpg" alt="(Ornament)" />
+</div>
+
+<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="II"></a>II</h2>
+<p class="center noindent fs120 bold">Father Maurice</p>
+
+<p class="drop-capy p2">“Germain,” said his father-in-law one day, “you must decide about
+marrying again. It is almost two years now since you lost my daughter,
+and your eldest boy is seven years old! You are almost thirty, my boy,
+and you know that in our country a man is considered too old to go to
+housekeeping again after that age; you have three nice children, and
+thus far they have not proved a burden to us at all. My wife and my
+daughter-in-law have looked after them as well as they could, and loved
+them as they ought. Here is Petit-Pierre almost grown up. He goads the
+oxen very well; he knows how to look after the cattle; and he is strong
+enough to drive the horses to the trough. So it is not he that worries
+us. But the other two, love them though we do, God knows the poor little
+innocents give us trouble enough this year; my daughter-in-law is about
+to lie in, and she has yet another baby to attend to. When the child
+we are expecting comes, she will not be able to look after your little
+Solange, and above all your Sylvain, who is not four years old, and who
+is never quiet day or night. He has a restless disposition like yours;
+that will make a good workman of him, but it makes a dreadful child, and
+my old wife cannot run fast enough to save him when he almost tumbles
+into the ditch, or when he throws himself in front of the tramping
+cattle. And then with this other that my daughter-in-law is going to
+bring into the world, for a month at least her next older child will
+fall on my wife’s hands. Besides, your children worry us, and give us
+too much to do; we hate to see children badly looked after, and when we
+think of the accidents that may befall them, for want of care, we cannot
+rest. So you need another wife, and I another daughter-in-law. Think
+this over, my son. I have called it to your mind before. Time flies,
+and the years will not wait a moment for you. It is your duty to your
+children and to the rest of us, who wish all well at home, to marry as
+soon as you can.”</p>
+
+<p>“Very well, father,” answered the son-in-law, “if you
+really wish it, I must do as you say. But I do not wish to hide it from
+you that it will make me very sad, and that I hardly wish for anything
+but to drown myself. We know who it is we lose, we never know whom we
+find. I had a good wife, a pretty wife, sweet, brave, good to her father
+and mother, good to her husband, good to her children, good to toil in
+the fields and in the house, well fitted to work,—in short, good for
+everything; and when you had given her to me, and I took her, we did
+not place it among our promises that I should go and forget about her if
+I had the misfortune to lose her.”</p>
+
+<p>“What you say shows your good heart, Germain,” answered Father Maurice.
+“I know that you loved my daughter and that you made her happy, and
+that had you been able to satisfy Death by going in her place, Catherine
+would be alive to-day, and you would be in the graveyard. She deserved
+all your love, and if you are not consoled, neither are we. But I do not
+speak to you of forgetting her: God wished her to leave us, and we do
+not let a day go by without telling him in our prayers and thoughts,
+and words and actions, that we keep her memory and still sorrow for her
+loss. But if she could speak to you from the other world, and let you
+know what she wishes, she would tell you to find a mother for her little
+orphans. So the question is to find a woman who will be worthy to take
+her place. It will not be easy, but it is not impossible. And when
+we shall find her for you, you will love her as you used to love my
+daughter, because you are a good man, and because you will be thankful
+to her for helping us and for loving your children.”</p>
+
+<p>“Very well, Father Maurice, I shall do as you wish, as I have always
+done.”</p>
+
+<p>“It is only justice, my son, to say that you have always listened to the
+friendly advice and good judgment of the head of the house. So let us
+consult about your choice of a new wife. First, I don’t advise you to
+take a young girl. That is not what you need. Youth is careless, and, as
+it is hard work to bring up three children, especially when they are of
+another bed, you must have a good soul, wise and gentle, and well used
+to work. If your wife is not about the same age as you, she will have
+no reason to accept such a duty. She will find you too old and your
+children too young. She will be complaining, and your children will
+suffer.”</p>
+
+<p>“This is just what makes me uneasy. Suppose the poor little things
+should be badly treated, hated, beaten?”</p>
+
+<p>“God grant not,” answered the old man. “But bad women are more rare with
+us than good, and we shall be stupid if we cannot pick out somebody who
+will suit us.”</p>
+
+<p>“That is true, father. There are good girls in our village. There is
+Louise, Sylvaine, Claudie, Marguerite—yes, anybody you want.”</p>
+
+<p>“Gently, gently, my boy. All these girls are too young, or too poor,
+or too pretty; for surely we must think of that too, my son. A pretty
+woman is not always as well behaved as another!”</p>
+
+<p>“Then you wish me to take an ugly wife?” said Germain, a little uneasy.</p>
+
+<p>“No, not ugly at all, for this woman will bear you other children, and
+there is nothing more miserable than to have children who are ugly and
+weak and sickly. But a woman still fresh and in good health, who is
+neither pretty nor ugly, would suit you exactly.”</p>
+
+<p>“I am quite sure,” said Germain, smiling rather sadly, “that to get
+such a woman as you wish, you must have her made to order. All the more
+because you don’t wish her to be poor, and the rich are not easy to get,
+particularly for a widower.”</p>
+
+<p>“And suppose she were a widow herself, Germain? A widow without children
+and with a good portion?”</p>
+
+<p>“For the moment, I cannot think of anybody like this in our parish.”</p>
+
+<p>“Nor I either. But there are others elsewhere.”</p>
+
+<p>“You have somebody in mind, father. Then tell me, at once, who it is.”</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter illowp60" id="chapter_iii">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/chapter_iii.jpg" alt="(Ornament)" />
+</div>
+
+<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="III"></a>III</h2>
+<p class="center noindent fs120 bold">Germain, the Skilled Husbandman</p>
+
+<p class="drop-capy p2">“Yes, I have somebody in mind,” replied Father Maurice. “It is a
+Leonard, the widow of a Guérin. She lives at Fourche.”</p>
+
+<p>“I know neither the woman nor the place,” answered Germain, resigned,
+but growing more and more melancholy.</p>
+
+<p>“Her name is Catherine, like your dead wife’s.”</p>
+
+<p>“Catherine? Yes, I shall be glad to have to pronounce that name,
+Catherine; and yet if I cannot love one as much as the other, it will
+pain me all the more. It will bring her to my mind more often.”</p>
+
+<p>“I tell you, you will love her. She is a good soul, a woman with a warm
+heart. I have not seen her for a long time. She was not an ugly girl
+then. But she is no longer young. She is thirty-two. She comes of a good
+family, honest people all of them, and for property she has eight or ten
+thousand francs in land which she would sell gladly in order to invest
+in the place where she settles. For she, too, is thinking of marrying
+again, and I know that if your character pleases her, she will not be
+dissatisfied with your situation.”</p>
+
+<p>“So you have made all the arrangements?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, except that I have not had an opinion from either of you, and that
+is what you must ask each other when you meet. The woman’s father is
+a distant connection of mine, and he has been a good friend to me. You
+know Father Leonard well?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, I have seen you two talking at the market, and at the last you
+lunched together. Then it was about her that he spoke to you so long?”</p>
+
+<p>“Certainly. He watched you selling your cattle and saw that you drove
+a shrewd bargain, and that you were a good-looking fellow and appeared
+active and intelligent; and when I told him what a good fellow you were
+and how well you have behaved toward us, without one word of vexation or
+anger during the eight years we have been living and working together,
+he took it into his head to marry you to his daughter. This suits me,
+too, I admit, when I think of her good reputation and the honesty of her
+family and the prosperous condition I know her affairs are in.”</p>
+
+<p>“I see, Father Maurice, that you have an eye to money.”</p>
+
+<p>“Of course I do; you have, too, have you not?”</p>
+
+<p>“I do look toward it, if you wish, for your sake; but you know that,
+for my own part, I don’t worry whether I gain or not in what we make. I
+don’t understand about profit-sharing; I have no head for that sort
+of thing. I understand the ground; I understand cattle, horses, carts,
+sowing, threshing, and provender. As for sheep, and vineyards, and
+vegetables, petty profits, and fine gardening, you know that is your
+son’s business. I don’t have much to do with it. As to money, my memory
+is short, and I should rather give up everything than fight about what
+is yours and what is mine. I should be afraid of making some mistake and
+claiming what does not belong to me, and if business were not so clear
+and simple I should never find my way in it.”</p>
+
+<p>“So much the worse, my son; and this is the reason I wish you to have a
+wife with a clear head to fill my place when I am gone. You never wished
+to understand our accounts, and this might lead you into a quarrel with
+my son, when you don’t have me any longer to keep you in harmony and
+decide what is each one’s share.”</p>
+
+<p>“May you live long, Father Maurice. But do not worry about what will
+happen when you die. I shall never quarrel with your son. I trust
+Jacques as I do you; and as I have no property of my own, and all that
+might accrue to me comes from your daughter and belongs to our children,
+I can rest easy, and you, too. Jacques would never rob his sister’s
+children for the sake of his own, for he loves them all equally.”</p>
+
+<p>“You are right, Germain. Jacques is a good son, a good brother, and a
+man who loves the truth. But Jacques may die before you, before your
+children grow up; and in a family we must always remember never to
+leave children without a head to look after them and govern their
+disagreements; otherwise, the lawyer-people mix themselves up in it,
+stir them up to fight, and make them eat up everything in law-suits.
+So we ought not to think of bringing home another person, man or woman,
+without remembering that some day or other that person may have to
+control the behavior and business of twenty or thirty children and
+grandchildren, sons-in-law and daughters-in-law. We never know how big a
+family can grow, and when a hive is so full that the bees must form new
+swarms, each one wishes to carry off her share of the honey. When I took
+you for my son, although my daughter was rich and you were poor, I never
+reproached her for choosing you. I saw that you were a hard worker, and
+I knew very well that the best fortune for people in such a country as
+ours is a pair of arms and a heart like yours. When a man brings these
+into a family, he brings enough. But with a woman it is different. Her
+work indoors saves, but it does not gain. Besides, now that you are
+a father, looking for a second wife, you must remember that your new
+children will have no claim on the property of your children by another
+wife; and if you should happen to die they might suffer very much—at
+least, if your wife had no money in her own right. And then the children
+which you will add to our colony will cost something to bring up. If
+that fell on us alone, we should surely take care of them without a word
+of complaint; but the comfort of everybody would suffer, and your eldest
+children would bear their share of hardship. When families grow too
+large, if money does not keep pace, misery comes, no matter how bravely
+you bear up. This is what I wished to say, Germain; think it over,
+and try to make the widow Guérin like you; for her discretion and her
+dollars will help us now and make us feel easy about the future.”</p>
+
+<p>“That is true, Father. I shall try to please her and to like her.”</p>
+
+<p>“To do that you must go to find her, and see her.”</p>
+
+<p>“At her own place? At Fourche? That is a great way from here, is it not?
+And we scarcely have time to run off at this season of the year.”</p>
+
+<p>“When it is a question of a love-match you must make up your mind to
+lose time, but when it is a sensible marriage of two people, who take
+no sudden fancies and know what they want, it is very soon decided.
+To-morrow is Saturday; you will make your day’s work a little shorter
+than usual. You must start after dinner about two o’clock. You will be
+at Fourche by nightfall. The moon rises early. The roads are good, and
+it is not more than three leagues distant. It is near Magnier. Besides,
+you will take the mare.”</p>
+
+<p>“I had just as lief go afoot in this cool weather.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, but the mare is pretty, and a suitor looks better when he comes
+well mounted. You must put on your new clothes and carry a nice present
+of game to Father Leonard. You will come from me and talk with him, pass
+all of Sunday with his daughter, and come back Monday morning with a yes
+or no.”</p>
+
+<p>“Very well,” answered Germain calmly, and yet he did not feel very calm.</p>
+
+<p>Germain had always lived soberly, as industrious peasants do. Married
+at twenty, he had loved but one woman in his life, and after her death,
+impulsive and gay as his nature was, he had never played nor trifled
+with another. He had borne a real sorrow faithfully in his heart, and
+it was not without misgiving nor without sadness that he yielded to his
+father-in-law; but that father had always governed the family wisely,
+and Germain, entirely devoted as he was to the common welfare and so,
+by consequence, to the head of the house, who represented it, could not
+understand that he might have wronged his own good sense and hurt the
+interests of all. Nevertheless, he was sad. Few days went by when he did
+not cry in secret, for his wife, and although loneliness began to weigh
+on him, he was more afraid of entering into a new marriage than desirous
+of finding a support in his sorrow. He had a vague idea that love might
+have consoled him by coming to him of a sudden, for this is the only way
+love can console. We never find it when we seek it; it comes over us
+unawares.</p>
+
+<p>This cold-blooded scheme of marriage that Father Maurice had opened to
+him, this unknown woman he was to take for his bride, perhaps even all
+that had been said to him of her virtue and good sense, made him pause
+to think. And he went away musing as men do whose thoughts are too few
+to divide into hostile factions, not scraping up fine arguments for
+rebellion and selfishness but suffering from a dull grief, submissive to
+ills from which there is no escape.</p>
+
+<p>Meanwhile, Father Maurice had returned to the farm, while Germain,
+between sunset and dark, spent the closing hour of the day in repairing
+gaps the sheep had made in the hedge of a yard near the farm-buildings.
+He lifted up the branches of the thorn-bushes and held them in place
+with clods of earth, whilst the thrushes chattered in the neighboring
+thicket and seemed to call to him to hurry, for they were eager to come
+and see his work as soon as he had gone.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter illowp60" id="chapter_iv">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/chapter_iv.jpg" alt="(Ornament)" />
+</div>
+
+<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="IV"></a>IV</h2>
+<p class="center noindent fs120 bold">Mother Guillette</p>
+
+<p class="drop-capy p2">Father Maurice found at his house an old neighbor who had come to talk
+with his wife, seeking at the same time to secure a few embers to light
+her fire. Mother Guillette lived in a wretched hut two gunshots away
+from the farm. Still she was a willing and an orderly woman. Her poor
+dwelling was clean and neat, and the care with which her clothes were
+mended showed that she respected herself in the midst of her penury.</p>
+
+<p>“You have come to fetch your evening fire, Mother Guillette,” said the
+old man to her. “Is there anything else you want?”</p>
+
+<p>“No, Father Maurice,” answered she; “nothing for the present. I am no
+beggar, as you know, and I take care not to abuse the kindness of my
+friends.”</p>
+
+<p>“That is very true. Besides, your friends are always ready to do you a
+service.”</p>
+
+<p>“I was just talking to your wife, and I was asking her if Germain had
+finally decided to marry again.”</p>
+
+<p>“You are no gossip,” replied Father Maurice; “we can talk in your
+presence without having any foolish tale-bearing to fear. So I will tell
+my wife and you that Germain has made up his mind absolutely. To-morrow
+morning he starts for the farm at Fourche.”</p>
+
+<p>“Good enough!” cried Mother Maurice; “poor child! God grant he may find
+a woman as good and true as he.”</p>
+
+<p>“So he is going to Fourche?” remarked Mother Guillette; “how lucky that
+is! It is exactly what I want. And since you were just asking me
+if there were anything I wished for, I am going to tell you, Father
+Maurice, how you can do me a service.”</p>
+
+<p>“Tell me what it is; we like to help you.”</p>
+
+<p>“I wish Germain would be so kind as to take my daughter along with him.”</p>
+
+<p>“Where? To Fourche?”</p>
+
+<p>“No, not to Fourche, but to Ormeaux. She is to stay there the rest of
+the year.”</p>
+
+<p>“What!” exclaimed Mother Maurice, “are you going to separate from your
+daughter?”</p>
+
+<p>“She must go out to work and earn her living. I am sorry enough, and she
+is too, poor soul. We could not make up our minds to part Saint John’s
+Day, but now that Saint Martin’s is upon us, she finds a good place as
+shepherdess at the farms at Ormeaux. On his way home from the fair the
+other day, the farmer passed by here. He caught sight of my little Marie
+tending her three sheep on the common.</p>
+
+<p>“‘You have hardly enough to do, my little girl,’ said he; ‘three sheep
+are not enough for a shepherdess: would you like to take care of a
+hundred? I will take you along. Our shepherdess has fallen sick. She is
+going back to her family, and if you will be at our farm before a week
+is over, you shall have fifty francs for the rest of the year up to
+Saint John’s Day.’</p>
+
+<p>“The child refused, but she could not help thinking it over and telling
+me about it, when she came home in the evening, and found me downhearted
+and worried about the winter, which was sure to be hard and long; for
+this year the cranes and wild ducks were seen crossing the sky a whole
+month before they generally do. We both of us cried, but after a time
+we took heart. We knew that we could not stay together, since it is hard
+enough for one person to get a living from our little patch of ground.
+Then since Marie is old enough,—for she is going on to sixteen,—she
+must do like the rest, earn her own living and help her poor mother.”</p>
+
+<p>“Mother Guillette,” said the old laborer, “if it were only fifty francs
+you needed to help you out of your trouble, and save you from sending
+away your daughter, I should certainly find them for you, although
+fifty francs is no trifle for people like us. But in everything we must
+consult common sense as well as friendship. To be saved from want this
+year will not keep you from want in the future, and the longer your
+daughter takes to make up her mind, the harder you both will find it
+to part. Little Marie is growing tall and strong. She has not enough at
+home to keep her busy. She might get into lazy habits....”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, I am not afraid of that!” exclaimed Mother Guillette. “Marie is as
+active as a rich girl at the head of a large family can be. She never
+sits still with her arms folded for an instant, and when we have no work
+to do, she keeps dusting and polishing our old furniture until it shines
+like a mirror. The child is worth her weight in gold, and I should much
+rather have her enter your service as a shepherdess than go so far away
+to people I don’t know. You would have taken her at Saint John’s Day;
+but now you have hired all your hands, and we cannot think of that till
+Saint John’s Day next year.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, I consent with all my heart, Guillette. I shall be very glad to
+take her. But in the mean time she will do well to learn her work, and
+accustom herself to obey others.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, that is true, no doubt. The die is cast. The farmer at Ormeaux
+sent to ask about her this morning; we consented, and she must go. But
+the poor child does not know the way, and I should not like to send her
+so far alone. Since your son-in-law goes to Fourche to-morrow, perhaps
+he can take her. It seems that Fourche is close to her journey’s end. At
+least, so they tell me, for I have never made the trip myself.”</p>
+
+<p>“It is very near indeed, and my son will show her the way. Naturally, he
+might even take her up behind him on the mare. That will save her shoes.
+Here he comes for supper. Tell me, Germain, Mother Guillette’s little
+Marie is going to become a shepherdess at Ormeaux. Will you take her
+there on your horse?”</p>
+
+<p>“Certainly,” answered Germain, who, troubled as he was, never felt
+indisposed to do a kindness to his neighbor.</p>
+
+<p>In our community a mother would not think of such a thing as to trust
+a girl of sixteen to a man of twenty-eight. For Germain was really
+but twenty-eight, and although according to the notions of the
+country people he was considered rather old to marry, he was still the
+best-looking man in the neighborhood. Toil had not wrinkled and worn him
+as it does most peasants who have passed ten years in tilling the soil.
+He was strong enough to labor for ten more years without showing signs
+of age, and the prejudices of her time must have weighed heavily on the
+mind of a young girl to prevent her from seeing that Germain had a fresh
+complexion, eyes sparkling and blue as skies in May, ruddy lips, fine
+teeth, and a body well shaped and lithe as a young horse that has never
+yet left his pasture.</p>
+
+<p>But purity of manners is a sacred custom in some districts far distant
+from the corrupted life of great cities, and amongst all the
+households of Belair, the family of Maurice was known to be honest and
+truth-loving. Germain was on his way to find a wife. Marie was a child,
+too young and too poor to be thought of in this light, and unless he
+were a heartless and a bad man he could not entertain one evil thought
+concerning her. Father Maurice felt no uneasiness at seeing him take the
+pretty girl on the crupper. Mother Guillette would have thought herself
+doing him a wrong had she asked him to respect her daughter as his
+sister. Marie embraced her mother and her young friends twenty times,
+and then mounted the mare in tears. Germain, sad on his own account,
+felt all the more sympathy for her sorrow, and rode away with a
+melancholy air, while all the people of the neighborhood waved good-by
+to Marie without a thought of harm.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter illowp60" id="chapter_v">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/chapter_v.jpg" alt="(Ornament)" />
+</div>
+
+<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="V"></a>V</h2>
+<p class="center noindent fs120 bold">Petit-Pierre</p>
+
+<p class="drop-capy p2">The gray was young, good-looking, and strong. She carried her double
+burden with ease, laying back her ears and champing her bit like the
+high-spirited mare she was. Passing in front of the pasture, she caught
+sight of her mother, whose name was the Old Gray as hers was the Young
+Gray, and she whinnied in token of good-by. The Old Gray came nearer
+the hedge, and striking her shoes together she tried to gallop along the
+edge of the field in order to follow her daughter; then seeing her fall
+into a sharp trot, the mare whinnied in her turn and stood in an uneasy
+attitude, her nose in the air and her mouth filled with grass that she
+had no thought of eating.</p>
+
+<p>“That poor beast always knows her offspring,” said Germain, trying to
+keep Marie’s thoughts from her troubles. “That reminds me, I never kissed
+Petit-Pierre before I started. The naughty boy was not there. Last night
+he wished to make me promise to take him along, and he wept for an hour
+in bed. This morning again, he tried everything to persuade me. Oh, how
+sly and coaxing he is! But when he saw that he could not gain his point,
+the young gentleman got into a temper. He went off to the fields, and I
+have not seen him all day.”</p>
+
+<p>“I have seen him,” said little Marie, striving to keep back her tears;
+“he was running toward the clearing with Soulas’ children, and I felt
+sure that he had been away from home a long time, for he was hungry and
+was eating wild plums and blackberries. I gave him the bread I had for
+lunch, and he said, ‘Thank you, dear Marie; when you come to our house,
+I will give you some cake.’ He is a dear little child, Germain.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, he is,” answered the laborer; “and there is nothing I would not do
+for him. If his grandmother had not more sense than I, I could not have
+helped taking him with me, when I saw him crying as though his poor
+little heart would burst.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then why did you not take him, Germain? He would have been very little
+trouble. He is so good when you please him.”</p>
+
+<p>“He would probably have been in the way in the place where I am going.
+At least Father Maurice thought so. On the other hand, I should have
+thought it well to see how they received him. For no one could help
+being kind to such a nice child. But at home they said that I must not
+begin by showing off all the cares of the household. I don’t know why I
+speak of this to you, little Marie; you can’t understand.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, yes, I do; I know that you are going away to marry; my mother spoke
+to me about it, and told me not to mention it to a soul, either at home
+or at my destination, and you need not be afraid; I shall not breathe a
+word about it.”</p>
+
+<p>“You are very right. For the deed isn’t done yet. Perhaps I shall not
+suit this woman.”</p>
+
+<p>“I hope you will, Germain; why should you not suit her?”</p>
+
+<p>“Who knows? I have three children, and that is a heavy burden for a
+woman who is not their mother.”</p>
+
+<p>“Very true. But are not your children like other children?”</p>
+
+<p>“Do you think so?”</p>
+
+<p>“They are lovely as little angels, and so well brought up that you can’t
+find better children.”</p>
+
+<p>“There’s Sylvain. He is none too obedient.”</p>
+
+<p>“He is so very little. He can’t help being naughty. But he is very
+bright.”</p>
+
+<p>“He is bright it is true, and very brave. He is not afraid of cows
+nor bulls, and if he were given his own way, he would be climbing on
+horseback already with his elder brother.”</p>
+
+<p>“Had I been in your place, I would have taken the eldest boy along.
+Surely people would have liked you at once for having such a pretty
+child.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, if a woman is fond of children. But if she is not.”</p>
+
+<p>“Are there women who don’t love children?”</p>
+
+<p>“Not many, I think, but still there are some, and that is what troubles
+me.”</p>
+
+<p>“You don’t know this woman at all, then?”</p>
+
+<p>“No more than you, and I fear that I shall not know her better after I
+have seen her. I am not suspicious. When people say nice things to me,
+I believe them, but more than once I have had good reason to repent, for
+words are not deeds.”</p>
+
+<p>“They say that she is a very good woman.”</p>
+
+<p>“Who says so? Father Maurice?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, your father-in-law.”</p>
+
+<p>“That is all very well. But he knows her no more than I.”</p>
+
+<p>“Well, you will soon see. Pay close attention, and let us hope that you
+will not be deceived.”</p>
+
+<p>“I have it. Little Marie, I should be very much obliged if you would
+come into the house for a minute before you go straight on to Ormeaux.
+You are quick-witted; you have always shown that you are not stupid,
+and nothing escapes your notice. Should you see anything to rouse your
+suspicions, you must warn me of it very quietly.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh! no, Germain, I will not do that; I should be too much afraid of
+making a mistake; and, besides, if a word lightly spoken were to turn
+you against this marriage, your family would bear me a grudge, and I
+have plenty of troubles now without bringing any more on my poor dear
+mother.”</p>
+
+<p>As they were talking thus, the gray pricked up her ears and shied; then
+returning on her steps, she approached the bushes, where she began to
+recognize something which had frightened her at first. Germain cast
+his eye over the thicket, and in a ditch, beneath the branches of a
+scrub-oak, still thick and green, he saw something which he took for a
+lamb.</p>
+
+<p>“The little creature is strayed or dead, for it does not move. Perhaps
+some one is looking for it; we must see.”</p>
+
+<p>“It is not an animal,” cried little Marie; “it is a sleeping child. It
+is your Petit-Pierre.”</p>
+
+<p>“Heavens!” exclaimed Germain; “see the little scamp asleep so far away
+from home, and in a ditch where a snake might bite him!”</p>
+
+<p>He lifted up the child, who smiled as he opened his eyes and threw his
+arms about his father’s neck, saying: “Dear little father, you are going
+to take me with you.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, yes; always the same tune. What were you doing there, you naughty
+Pierre?”</p>
+
+<p>“I was waiting for my little father to go by. I was watching the road,
+and I watched so hard that I fell asleep.”</p>
+
+<p>“And if I had passed by without seeing you, you would have been out of
+doors all night, and a wolf would have eaten you up.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, I knew very well that you would see me,” answered Petit-Pierre,
+confidently.</p>
+
+<p>“Well, kiss me now, bid me good-by, and run back quickly to the house,
+unless you wish them to have supper without you.”</p>
+
+<p>“Are you not going to take me, then?” cried the little boy, beginning to
+rub his eyes to show that he was thinking of tears.</p>
+
+<p>“You know very well that grandpapa and grandmama do not wish it,” said
+Germain, fortifying himself behind the authority of his elders, like a
+man who distrusts his own.</p>
+
+<p>The child would not listen. He began to cry with all his might, saying
+that as long as his father was taking little Marie, he might just as
+well take him too. They replied that they must pass through great woods
+filled with wicked beasts who eat up little children. The gray would not
+carry three people; she had said so when they were starting, and in the
+country where they were going there was no bed and no supper for little
+boys. All these good reasons could not persuade Petit-Pierre; he threw
+himself on the ground, and rolled about, shrieking that his little
+father did not love him any more, and that if he did not take him he
+would never go back to the house at all, day or night.</p>
+
+<p>Germain had a father’s heart, as soft and weak as a woman’s. His wife’s
+death, and the care which he had been obliged to bestow all alone on his
+little ones, as well as the thought that these poor motherless children
+needed a great deal of love, combined to make him thus. So such a sharp
+struggle went on within him, all the more because he was ashamed of his
+weakness and tried to hide his confusion from little Marie, that the
+sweat started out on his forehead, and his eyes grew red and almost
+ready to weep. At last he tried to get angry, but as he turned toward
+little Marie in order to let her witness his strength of mind, he saw
+that the good girls face was wet with tears; all his courage forsook him
+and he could not keep back his own, scold and threaten as he would.</p>
+
+<p>“Truly your heart is too hard,” said little Marie at last, “and for
+myself I know that I never could refuse a child who felt so badly. Come,
+Germain, let’s take him. Your mare is well used to carrying two people
+and a child, for you know that your brother-in-law and his wife, who is
+much heavier than I, go to market every Saturday with their boy on this
+good beast’s back. Take him on the horse in front of you. Besides, I
+should rather walk on foot all alone than give this little boy so much
+pain.”</p>
+
+<p>“Never mind,” answered Germain, who was dying to allow himself to give
+way. “The gray is strong, and could carry two more if there were room on
+her back. But what can we do with this child on the way? He will be cold
+and hungry, and who will take care of him to-night and to-morrow, put
+him to bed, wash him, and dress him? I don’t dare give this trouble to
+a woman I don’t know, who will think, doubtless, that I am exceedingly
+free and easy with her to begin with.”</p>
+
+<p>“Trust me, Germain, you will know her at once by the kindness or the
+impatience that she shows. If she does not care to receive your Pierre,
+I will take charge of him myself. I will go to her house and dress him,
+and I will take him to the fields with me to-morrow. I will amuse him
+all day long, and take good care that he does not want for anything.”</p>
+
+<p>“He will tire you, my poor girl, and give you trouble. A whole day is a
+long time.”</p>
+
+<p>“Not at all; it will give me pleasure; he will keep me company, and that
+will make me less sad the first day that I must pass in a new place. I
+shall fancy that I am still at home.”</p>
+
+<p>Seeing that little Marie was pleading for her, the child seized upon her
+skirt and held it so tight that they must have hurt him in order to
+tear it away. When he perceived that his father was weakening, he took
+Marie’s hand in both his tiny sunburned fists and kissed her, leaping
+for joy, and pulling her toward the mare with the burning impatience
+children feel in their desires.</p>
+
+<p>“Come along,” said the young girl, lifting him in her arms; “let us try
+to quiet his poor little heart. It is fluttering like a little bird; and
+if you feel the cold when night comes on, tell me, my Pierre, and I will
+wrap you in my cape. Kiss your little father, and beg his pardon for
+being naughty. Tell him that you will never, never be so again. Do you
+hear?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, yes, provided that I always do just as he wishes. Isn’t it
+so?” said Germain, drying the little boy’s eyes with his handkerchief.
+“Marie, you are spoiling the little rascal. But really and truly, you
+are too good, little Marie. I don’t know why you did not come to us
+as shepherdess last Saint John’s Day. You would have taken care of my
+children, and I should much rather pay a good price for their sake than
+try to find a woman who will think, perhaps, she is doing me a great
+kindness if she does not detest them.”</p>
+
+<p>“You must not look on the dark side of things,” answered little Marie,
+holding the horse’s bridle while Germain placed his son in front of the
+big pack-saddle covered with goatskin. “If your wife does not care for
+children, take me into your service next year, and you may be sure I
+shall amuse them so well that they will not notice anything.”</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter illowp60" id="chapter_vi">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/chapter_vi.jpg" alt="(Ornament)" />
+</div>
+
+<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="VI"></a>VI</h2>
+<p class="center noindent fs120 bold">On the Heath</p>
+
+<p class="drop-capy p2">“Dear me,” said Germain, after they had gone a few steps farther, “what
+will they think at home when they miss the little man? The family will
+be worried, and will be looking everywhere for him.”</p>
+
+<p>“You can tell the man who is mending the road up there that you are
+taking him along, and ask him to speak to your people.”</p>
+
+<p>“That is very true, Marie; you don’t forget anything. It never occurred
+to me that Jeannie must be there.”</p>
+
+<p>“He lives close to the farm, and he will not fail to do your errand.”</p>
+
+<p>When they had taken this precaution, Germain put the mare to a trot, and
+Petit-Pierre was so overjoyed that for a time he forgot that he had
+gone without his dinner; but the motion of the horse gave him a hollow
+feeling in his stomach, and at the end of a league, he began to gape and
+grow pale, and confessed that he was dying of hunger.</p>
+
+<p>“This is the way it begins,” exclaimed Germain. “I was quite sure that
+we should not go far without this young gentleman crying with hunger or
+thirst.”</p>
+
+<p>“I am thirsty, too!” said Petit-Pierre.</p>
+
+<p>“Very well, then, let’s go to Mother Rebec’s tavern at Corlay, the
+sign of ‘The Dawn’—a pretty sign, but a poor lodging. You will take
+something to drink, too, will you not, Marie?”</p>
+
+<p>“No, no; I don’t want anything. I will hold the mare while you go in
+with the child.”</p>
+
+<p>“But I remember, my good girl, that this morning you gave the bread from
+your own breakfast to my Pierre. You have had nothing to eat. You would
+not take dinner with us at home; you would do nothing but cry.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, I was not hungry; I felt too sad, and I give you my word that even
+now I have no desire to eat.”</p>
+
+<p>“You must oblige yourself to eat, little girl, else you will fall sick.
+We have a long way to go, and it will not do to arrive half-starved and
+beg for bread before we say how d’ ye do. I shall set you a good example
+myself, although I am not very hungry: and I am sure that I can, for,
+after all, I did not eat any dinner. I saw you crying, you and your
+mother, and it made me feel sad. Come along. I am going to tie the gray
+at the door. Get down; I wish you to.”</p>
+
+<p>All three entered the inn, and in less than fifteen minutes the fat,
+lame hostess was able to place before them a nice-looking omelette, some
+brown bread, and a bottle of light wine.</p>
+
+<p>Peasants do not eat quickly, and little Pierre had such a good appetite
+that a whole hour passed before Germain could think of starting out
+again. At first little Marie ate in order to be obliging; then little
+by little she grew hungry. For, at sixteen, a girl cannot fast for long,
+and country air is dictatorial.</p>
+
+<p>The kind words with which Germain knew how to comfort her and strengthen
+her courage, produced their effect. She tried hard to persuade herself
+that seven months would soon be over, and to think of the pleasure in
+store for her when she saw once more her family and her hamlet; for
+Father Maurice and Germain had both promised to take her into their
+service. But just as she began to cheer up and play with little Pierre,
+Germain was so unfortunate as to point out to her from the inn window
+the lovely view of the valley which can all be seen from this height,
+and which looks so happy and green and fertile.</p>
+
+<p>Marie looked and asked if the houses of Belair were in sight.</p>
+
+<p>“No doubt,” said Germain, “and the farm, too, and even your house—see!
+that tiny gray spot not far from Godard’s big poplar, below the belfry.”</p>
+
+<p>“Ah, I see it,” said the little girl; and then she began to cry.</p>
+
+<p>“I ought not to have made you think of it,” said Germain. “I can do
+nothing but stupid things to-day. Come along, Marie; let’s start, and in
+an hour, when the moon rises, it will not be hot.”</p>
+
+<p>They resumed their journey across the great heath, and for fear of
+tiring the young girl and the child by too rapid a trot, Germain did not
+make the gray go very fast. The sun had set when they left the road to
+enter the wood.</p>
+
+<p>Germain knew the way as far as Magnier, but he thought it would be
+shorter to avoid the Chantaloube road and descend by Presles and La
+Sépulture, a route he was not in the habit of taking on his way to the
+fair. He lost his way, and wasted more time before he reached the wood.
+Even then he did not enter it on the right side, although he did not
+perceive his mistake, so that he turned his back on Fourche, and took a
+direction higher up on the way to Ardente.</p>
+
+<p>He was prevented still further from finding his way by a thick mist
+which rose as the night fell; one of those mists which come on autumn
+evenings when the whiteness of the moonlight renders them more undefined
+and more treacherous. The great pools of water scattered through the
+glades gave forth a vapor so dense that when the gray crossed them,
+their presence was known only by a splashing noise, and the difficulty
+with which she drew her feet from the mud.</p>
+
+<p>At last they found a good straight road, and when they came to the end
+of it, and Germain tried to discover where he was, he saw that he was
+lost. For Father Maurice had told him, when he explained the way, that
+on leaving the wood he must descend a very steep hillside, cross a wide
+meadow, and ford the river twice. He had even warned him to cross this
+river carefully; for, early in the season, there had been great rains,
+and the water might still be higher than usual. Seeing neither hillside
+nor meadows, nor river, but a heath, level and white as a mantle of
+snow, Germain stopped, looked about for a house, and waited for a
+passer-by, but could find nothing to set him right. Then he retraced his
+steps and reentered the wood. But the mist thickened yet more, the moon
+was completely hidden, the roads were execrable, and the quagmires deep.
+Twice the gray almost fell. Her heavy load made her lose courage, and
+although she kept enough sagacity to avoid the tree-trunks, she could
+not prevent her riders from striking the great branches which overhung
+the road at the height of their heads and caused them great danger.
+In one of these collisions Germain lost his hat, and only recovered it
+after much difficulty. Petit-Pierre had fallen asleep, and, lying like
+a log in his father’s arms, hampered him so that he could no longer hold
+up nor direct the horse.</p>
+
+<p>“I believe we are bewitched,” exclaimed Germain, stopping; “for the
+wood is not large enough to get lost in, if a man is not drunk, and here
+we have been turning round and round for two hours at least, without
+finding a way out. The gray has but one idea in her head, and that is to
+get home. It is she who is deceiving me. If we wish to go home, we have
+only to give her the bit. But when we are perhaps but two steps from
+our journey’s end, it would be foolish to give up and return such a long
+road; and yet I am at a loss what to do. I can’t see sky or earth, and
+I am afraid that the child will catch the fever if we remain in this
+cursed fog, or that he will be crushed beneath our weight if the horse
+falls forward.”</p>
+
+<p>“We must not persist longer,” said little Marie. “Let’s dismount,
+Germain. Give me the child; I can carry him perfectly well, and I know
+better than you how to keep the cloak from falling open and leaving
+him exposed. You lead the mare by her bridle. Perhaps we shall see more
+clearly when we are nearer the ground.”</p>
+
+<p>This precaution was of service only in saving them from a fall, for the
+fog hung low and seemed to stick to the damp earth.</p>
+
+<p>Their advance was painfully slow, and they were soon so weary that they
+halted when they reached a dry spot beneath the great oaks.</p>
+
+<p>Little Marie was in a violent sweat, but she uttered not a word of
+complaint, nor did she worry about anything. Thinking only of the child,
+she sat down on the sand and laid it upon her knees, while Germain
+explored the neighborhood, after having fastened the gray’s reins to the
+branch of a tree.</p>
+
+<p>But the gray was very dissatisfied with the journey. She reared
+suddenly, broke the reins loose, burst her girths, and giving, by way of
+receipt, half a dozen kicks higher than her head, she started across the
+clearing, showing very plainly that she needed no one to show her the
+way home.</p>
+
+<p>“Well, here we are afoot,” said Germain, after a vain attempt to catch
+the horse, “and it would do us no good now if we were on the good road,
+for we should have to ford the river on foot, and since these paths are
+filled with water, we may be sure that the meadow is wholly submerged.
+We don’t know the other routes. We must wait until this fog clears. It
+can’t last more than an hour or two; as soon as we can see clearly, we
+shall look about for a house, the first we come to near the edge of the
+wood. But for the present we can’t stir from here. There is a ditch
+and a pond over there. Heaven knows what is in front of us, and what is
+behind us is more than I can say now, for I have forgotten which way we
+came.”</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter illowp60" id="chapter_vii">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/chapter_vii.jpg" alt="(Ornament)" />
+</div>
+
+<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="VII"></a>VII</h2>
+<p class="center noindent fs120 bold">Underneath the Big Oaks</p>
+
+<p class="drop-capy p2">“Well, we must be patient, Germain,” said little Marie. “We are not
+badly off on this little hillock. The rain does not pierce the leaves of
+these big oaks, and we can light a fire, for I can feel old stumps which
+stir readily and are dry enough to burn. You have a light, Germain, have
+you not? You were smoking your pipe a few minutes ago.”</p>
+
+<p>“I did have; my tinderbox was in my bag on the saddle with the game that
+I was bringing to my bride that is to be, but that devilish mare has run
+away with everything, even with my cloak, which she will lose and tear
+to bits on every branch she comes to.”</p>
+
+<p>“No, no, Germain; saddle and
+cloak and bag are all there on the ground at your feet. The gray burst
+her girths, and threw off everything as she ran away.”</p>
+
+<p>“That’s true, thank God,” exclaimed the laborer; “if we can grope about
+and find a little dead wood, we shall be able to dry ourselves and get
+warm.”</p>
+
+<p>“That’s not difficult,” said little Marie; “dead wood always cracks
+when you step on it. But will you give me the saddle?”</p>
+
+<p>“What do you want of it?”</p>
+
+<p>“To make a bed for the child. No, not that way. Upside down. He will
+not roll off into the hollow, and it is still very warm from the horse’s
+back. Prop it up all around with the stones that you see there.”</p>
+
+<p>“I can’t see a stone; you must have cat’s eyes.”</p>
+
+<p>“There, it is all done, Germain. Hand me your cloak so that you can wrap
+up his little feet, and throw my cape over his body. Just see if he is
+not as comfortable as though he were in his own bed, and feel how warm
+he is.”</p>
+
+<p>“You certainly know how to take care of children, Marie.”</p>
+
+<p>“I need not be a witch to do that; now get your tinderbox from your bag,
+and I will arrange the wood.”</p>
+
+<p>“This wood will never catch fire; it is too damp.”</p>
+
+<p>“You are always doubting, Germain. Don’t you remember when you were a
+shepherd, and made big fires in the fields right in the midst of the
+rain?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, that is a knack that belongs to children who take care of sheep;
+but I was made to drive the oxen as soon as I could walk.”</p>
+
+<p>“That is what has made your arms strong and your hands quick! Here, the
+fire is built; you shall see whether it does not burn. Give me the light
+and a handful of dry ferns. That is all right. Now blow; you are not
+consumptive, are you?”</p>
+
+<p>“Not that I know of,” said Germain, blowing like a smith’s bellows. In
+an instant the flame leaped up, and throwing out a red glare, it rose
+finally in pale blue jets under the oak branches, battling with the fog,
+and gradually drying the atmosphere for ten feet around.</p>
+
+<p>“Now I am going to sit by the child, so that the sparks may not fall
+on him,” said the young girl. “Pile on the wood and stir up the fire,
+Germain; we shall not catch cold nor fever here, I will answer for it.”</p>
+
+<p>“Upon my word, you are a clever girl,” said Germain; “and you know how
+to make a fire like a little fairy of the night. I feel quite revived,
+and my courage has come back again; for with my legs drenched up to the
+knees, and with the thought of staying this way till daylight, I was in
+a very bad temper just now.”</p>
+
+<p>“And when people are in a bad temper they don’t think of anything,”
+answered little Marie.</p>
+
+<p>“And are you never bad-tempered?”</p>
+
+<p>“No, never; what is the good of it?”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, of course, there is no good; but how can you help it when you have
+troubles? Yet Heaven knows that you have not lacked them, my little
+girl; for you have not always been happy.”</p>
+
+<p>“It is true that my mother and I have suffered. We have had sorrows, but
+we have never lost heart.”</p>
+
+<p>“I should never lose heart, no matter how hard my work was,” said
+Germain, “but poverty would make me very sad; for I have never wanted
+for anything. My wife made me rich, and I am rich still; I shall be
+so as long as I work on the farm; and that will be always, I hope. But
+everybody must suffer his share! I have suffered in another way.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes; you have lost your wife. That is very sad.”</p>
+
+<p>“Isn’t it?”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh! Germain, I have wept for her many a time. She was so very kind! But
+don’t let us talk about her longer, for I shall burst out crying. All my
+troubles are ready to come back to me to-day.”</p>
+
+<p>“It is true, she loved you dearly, little Marie. She used to make a
+great deal of you and your mother. Are you crying? Come, my girl, I
+don’t want to cry....”</p>
+
+<p>“But you are crying, Germain! You are crying as hard as I. Why should
+a man be ashamed to weep for his wife? Don’t let me trouble you. That
+sorrow is mine as well as yours.”</p>
+
+<p>“You have a kind heart, Marie, and it does me good to weep with you. Put
+your feet nearer the fire; your skirts are all soaked, too, poor little
+girl. I am going to take your place by the boy. You move nearer the
+fire.”</p>
+
+<p>“I am hot enough,” said Marie; “and if you wish to sit down, take a
+corner of the cloak. I am perfectly comfortable.”</p>
+
+<p>“The truth is that it is not so bad here,” said Germain, as he sat down
+beside her. “Only I feel very hungry again. It is almost nine o’clock,
+and I have had such hard work in walking over these vile roads that I
+feel quite tired out. Are you not hungry, too, little Marie?”</p>
+
+<p>“I?—not at all. I am not accustomed like you to four meals a day, and
+I have been to bed so often without my supper that once more does not
+trouble me.”</p>
+
+<p>“A woman like you is very convenient; she costs nothing,” said Germain,
+smiling.</p>
+
+<p>“I am not a woman,” exclaimed Marie, naïvely, without perceiving the
+direction the husbandman’s ideas had taken. “Are you dreaming?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, I believe I must be dreaming,” answered Germain. “Perhaps hunger
+is making my mind wander.”</p>
+
+<p>“How greedy you are,” answered she, brightening in her turn. “Well, if
+you can’t live five or six hours without eating, have you not game in
+your bag and fire to cook it?”</p>
+
+<p>“By Jove, that’s a good idea! But how about the present to my future
+father-in-law?”</p>
+
+<p>“You have six partridges and a hare! I suppose you do not need all of
+them to satisfy your appetite.”</p>
+
+<p>“But how can we cook them without a spit or andirons. They will be
+burned to a cinder!”</p>
+
+<p>“Not at all,” said little Marie; “I warrant that I can cook them for you
+under the cinders without a taste of smoke. Have you never caught larks
+in the fields, and cooked them between two stones? Oh! that is true—I
+keep forgetting that you have never been a shepherd. Come, pluck the
+partridge. Not so hard! You will tear the skin.”</p>
+
+<p>“You might be plucking the other to show me how!”</p>
+
+<p>“Then you wish to eat two? What an ogre you are! They are all plucked. I
+am going to cook them.”</p>
+
+<p>“You would make a perfect little sutler’s girl, Marie, but unhappily you
+have no canteen, and I shall have to drink water from this pool!”</p>
+
+<p>“You would like some wine, would you not? Possibly you might prefer
+coffee. You imagine yourself under the trees at the fair. Call out the
+host. Some wine for the good husbandman of Belair!”</p>
+
+<p>“You little witch, you are making fun of me! Would not you drink some
+wine if you had it?”</p>
+
+<p>“I? At Mother Rebec’s, with you to-night, I drank some for the second
+time in my life. But if you are very good, I shall give you a bottle
+almost full, and excellent too.”</p>
+
+<p>“What? Marie, I verily believe you are a witch!”</p>
+
+<p>“Were you not foolish enough to ask for two bottles of wine at the inn?
+You and your boy drank one, and the other you set before me. I hardly
+drank three drops, yet you paid for both without looking.”</p>
+
+<p>“What then?”</p>
+
+<p>“Why, I put the full one in my basket, because I thought that you or
+your child would be thirsty on the journey. And here it is.”</p>
+
+<p>“You are the most thoughtful girl I have ever met. Although the poor
+child was crying when we left the inn, that did not prevent her from
+thinking of others more than of herself. Little Marie, the man who
+marries you will be no fool.”</p>
+
+<p>“I hope not, for I am not fond of fools. Come, eat up your partridges;
+they are done to a turn; and for want of bread, you must be satisfied
+with chestnuts.”</p>
+
+<p>“Where the deuce did you find chestnuts, too?”</p>
+
+<p>“It is extraordinary! All along the road I picked them off the branches
+as we went along, and filled my pockets.”</p>
+
+<p>“And are they cooked, too?”</p>
+
+<p>“Where would my wits have been had I not had sense enough to put the
+chestnuts in the fire as soon as it was lighted? That is the way we
+always do in the fields.”</p>
+
+<p>“So we are going to take supper together, little Marie. I want to
+drink your health and wish you a good husband, just the sort of a man
+that will suit you. Tell me what kind you want.”</p>
+
+<p>“I should find that very difficult, Germain, for I have not thought
+about it yet.”</p>
+
+<p>“What, not at all? Never?” said Germain, as he began to eat with a
+laborer’s appetite, yet stopping to cut off the more tender morsels for
+his companion, who persisted in refusing them and contented herself with
+a few chestnuts.</p>
+
+<p>“Tell me, little Marie,” he went on, seeing that she had no intention
+of answering him, “have you never thought of marrying? Yet you are old
+enough?”</p>
+
+<p>“Perhaps,” she said, “but I am too poor. I need at least a hundred
+crowns to marry, and I must work five or six years to scrape them
+together.”</p>
+
+<p>“Poor girl, I wish Father Maurice were willing to give me a hundred
+crowns to make you a present of.”</p>
+
+<p>“Thank you kindly, Germain. What do you suppose people would say of me?”</p>
+
+<p>“What do you wish them to say of you? They know very well that I am too
+old to marry you. They would never believe that I—that you—”</p>
+
+<p>“Look, Germain, your child is waking up,” said little Marie.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter illowp60" id="chapter_viii">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/chapter_viii.jpg" alt="(Ornament)" />
+</div>
+
+<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="VIII"></a>VIII</h2>
+<p class="center noindent fs120 bold">The Evening Prayer</p>
+
+<p class="drop-capy p2">Petit-Pierre had raised his head and was looking about him with a
+thoughtful air.</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, that is the way he always does, whenever he hears the sound of
+eating,” said Germain. “The explosion of a cannon would not rouse him,
+but if you work your jaws near him, he opens his eyes at once.”</p>
+
+<p>“You must have been just like him at his age,” said little Marie, with
+a sly smile. “See! my Petit-Pierre, you are looking for your canopy.
+To-night it is made all of green, my child; but your father eats his
+supper none the less. Do you wish to sup with him? I have not eaten your
+share; I thought that you might claim it.”</p>
+
+<p>“Marie, I wish you to eat,” cried the husbandman; “I shall not touch
+another morsel. I am a greedy glutton. You are depriving yourself for
+our sake. It is not fair. I am ashamed. It takes away all my appetite. I
+will not have my son eat his supper unless you take some too.”</p>
+
+<p>“Leave us alone,” said little Marie; “you have not the key to our
+appetites. Mine is tight shut to-day, but your Pierre’s is as wide open
+as a little wolf’s. Just see how he seizes his food. He will be a strong
+workman too, some day!”</p>
+
+<p>In truth, Petit-Pierre showed very soon whose son he was, and though
+scarcely awake and wholly at a loss to know where he was and how he
+had come there, he began to eat ravenously. As soon as his hunger was
+appeased, feeling excited as children do who break loose from their
+wonted habits, he had more wit, more curiosity, and more good sense than
+usual. He made them explain to him where he was, and when he found that
+he was in the midst of a forest, he grew a little frightened.</p>
+
+<p>“Are there wicked beasts in this forest?” he demanded of his father.</p>
+
+<p>“No, none at all. Don’t be afraid.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then you told a story when you said that if I went with you into the
+great forest, the wolves would carry me off.”</p>
+
+<p>“Just see this logician,” said Germain, embarrassed.</p>
+
+<p>“He is right,” replied little Marie. “That is what you told him. He has
+a good memory, and has not forgotten. But, little Pierre, you must learn
+that your father never tells a story. We passed through the big forest
+whilst you were sleeping, and now we are in the small forest where there
+are no wicked beasts.”</p>
+
+<p>“Is the little forest very far away from the big one?”</p>
+
+<p>“Far enough; besides, the wolves never go out of the big forest. And
+then, if some of them should come here, your father would kill them.”</p>
+
+<p>“And you too, little Marie?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, we, too, for you would help also, my Pierre. You are not
+frightened, are you? You would beat them soundly?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, indeed, I would,” said the child, proudly, as he struck a heroic
+attitude; “we would kill them.”</p>
+
+<p>“There is nobody like you for talking to children and for making them
+listen to reason,” said Germain to little Marie. “To be sure, it is
+not long ago since you were a small child yourself, and you have not
+forgotten what your mother used to say to you. I believe that the
+younger one is, the better one gets on with children. I am very much
+afraid that a woman of thirty who does not yet know what it is to be a
+mother, would find it hard to prattle to children and reason with them.”</p>
+
+<p>“Why, Germain? I don’t know why you have such a bad idea of this woman;
+you will change your mind.”</p>
+
+<p>“The devil take the woman!” exclaimed Germain. “I wish I were going away
+from her forever. What do I want of a wife whom I don’t know?”</p>
+
+<p>“Little father,” said the child, “why is it that you speak so much of
+your wife to-day, since she is dead?”</p>
+
+<p>“Then you have not forgotten your poor, dear mother?”</p>
+
+<p>“No; for I saw her placed in a beautiful box of white wood, and my
+grandmother led me up to her to kiss her and say good-by. She was very
+white and very stiff, and every evening my aunt made me pray God that
+she might go to him in Heaven and be warm. Do you think that she is
+there now?”</p>
+
+<p>“I hope so, my child; but you must always pray. It shows your mother
+that you love her.”</p>
+
+<p>“I am going to say my prayers,” answered the boy. “I forgot them
+to-night. But I can’t say them all alone, for I always forget something.
+Little Marie must help me.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, my Pierre, I will help you,” said the young girl. “Come and kneel
+down in my lap.”</p>
+
+<p>The child knelt down on the girl’s skirt. He clasped his little hands
+and began to say his prayers, at first with great care and earnestness,
+for he knew the beginning very well, then slowly and with more
+hesitation, and finally repeating word by word after Marie, when he came
+to that place in his prayer where sleep overtook him so invariably that
+he had never been able to learn the end. This time again the effort of
+close attention and the monotony of his own accent produced their wonted
+effect. He pronounced the last syllables with great difficulty, and only
+after they were thrice repeated.</p>
+
+<p>His head grew heavy and fell on Marie’s breast; his hands unclasped,
+divided, and fell open on his knees. By the light of the camp-fire,
+Germain watched his little darling hushed at the heart of the young
+girl, who, as she held him in her arms and warmed his fair hair with
+her sweet breath, had herself fallen into a holy reverie, and prayed in
+quiet for the soul of Catherine.</p>
+
+<p>Germain was touched. He tried to express to little Marie the grateful
+esteem which he felt for her, but he could find no fitting words.</p>
+
+<p>He approached her to kiss his son, whom she held close to her breast,
+and he could scarcely raise his lips from little Pierre’s brow.</p>
+
+<p>“You kiss too hard,” said Marie, gently pushing away the husbandman’s
+head. “You will wake him. Let me put him back to bed, for the boy has
+left us already for dreams of paradise.”</p>
+
+<p>The child allowed Marie to lay him down, but feeling the goatskin on the
+saddle, he asked if he were on the gray. Then opening his big blue eyes,
+and keeping them fixed on the branches for a minute, he seemed to be
+dreaming, wide-awake as he was, or to be struck with an idea which had
+slipped his mind during the daytime, and only assumed a distinct form at
+the approach of sleep.</p>
+
+<p>“Little father,” said he, “if you wish to give me a new mother, I hope
+it will be little Marie.”</p>
+
+<p>And without waiting for an answer, he closed his eyes and slept.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter illowp60" id="chapter_ix">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/chapter_ix.jpg" alt="(Ornament)" />
+</div>
+
+<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="IX"></a>IX</h2>
+<p class="center noindent fs120 bold">Despite the Cold</p>
+
+<p class="drop-capy p2">Little Marie seemed to give no more heed to the child’s odd words than
+to regard them as a proof of friendship. She wrapped him up with care,
+stirred the fire, and as the fog resting on the neighboring pool gave
+no sign of lifting, she advised Germain to lie near the fire and take a
+nap.</p>
+
+<p>“I see that you are sleepy already,” said she, “for you don’t say a word
+and you gaze into the fire, just as your little boy was doing.”</p>
+
+<p>“It is you who must sleep,” answered the husbandman, “and I will take
+care of both of you, for I have never felt less sleepy than I do now. I
+have fifty things to think of.”</p>
+
+<p>“Fifty is a great many,” said the little girl, with a mocking accent.
+“There are lots of people who would be delighted to have one.”</p>
+
+<p>“Well, if I am too stupid to have fifty, I have one, at least, which has
+not left me for the past hour.”</p>
+
+<p>“And I shall tell it to you as well as I told you those you thought of
+before.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, do tell me if you know, Marie. Tell me yourself. I shall be glad
+to hear.”</p>
+
+<p>“An hour ago,” she answered, “your idea was to eat—and now it is to
+sleep.”</p>
+
+<p>“Marie, I am only an ox-driver, but, upon my word, you take me for an
+ox. You are very perverse, and it is easy to see that you do not care to
+talk to me, so go to sleep. That will be better than to pick flaws in a
+man who is out of sorts.”</p>
+
+<p>“If you wish to talk, let’s talk,” said the girl, half reclining
+near the child and resting her head against the saddle. “You torment
+yourself, Germain, and you do not show much courage for a man. What
+wouldn’t I say if I didn’t do my best to fight my own troubles?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, that’s very true, and that’s just what I am thinking of, my
+poor child. You are going to live, away from your friends, in a horrid
+country full of moors and fens, where you will catch the autumn fevers.
+Sheep do not pay well there, and this is always discouraging for a
+shepherdess if she means well. Then you will be surrounded by strangers
+who may not be kind to you and will not know how much you are worth. It
+makes me more sorry than I can tell you, and I have a great desire to
+take you home to your mother instead of going on to Fourche.”</p>
+
+<p>“You talk very kindly, but there is no reason for your misgivings, my
+poor Germain. You ought not to lose heart on your friend’s account, and
+instead of showing me the dark side of my lot, you should show me the
+bright side, as you did after lunch at Rebec’s.”</p>
+
+<p>“What can I do? That’s the way it appeared to me then, and now my ideas
+are changed. It is best for you to take a husband.”</p>
+
+<p>“That cannot be, Germain, and as it is out of the question, I think no
+more about it.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yet such a thing might happen. Perhaps if you told me what kind of a
+man you want, I might imagine somebody.”</p>
+
+<p>“Imagining is not finding. For myself, I never imagine, for it does no
+good.”</p>
+
+<p>“You are not looking for a rich man?”</p>
+
+<p>“Certainly not, for I am as poor as Job.”</p>
+
+<p>“But if he were comfortably off, you wouldn’t be sorry to have a good
+house, and good food, and good clothes, and to live with an honest
+family who would allow you to help your mother.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, yes indeed! It is my own wish to help my mother.”</p>
+
+<p>“And if this man were to turn up, you would not be too hard to please,
+even if he were not so very young.”</p>
+
+<p>“Ah! There you must excuse me, Germain. That is just the point I insist
+on. I could never love an old man.”</p>
+
+<p>“An old man, of course not; but a man of my age, for example!”</p>
+
+<p>“Your age is too old for me, Germain. I should like Bastien’s age,
+though Bastien is not so good-looking as you.”</p>
+
+<p>“Should you rather have Bastien, the swineherd?” said Germain,
+indignantly. “A fellow with eyes shaped like those of the pigs he
+drives!”</p>
+
+<p>“I could excuse his eyes, because he is eighteen.”</p>
+
+<p>Germain felt terribly jealous.</p>
+
+<p>“Well,” said he, “it’s clear that you want Bastien, but, none the less,
+it’s a queer idea.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, that would be a queer idea,” answered little Marie, bursting into
+shouts of laughter, “and he would make a queer husband. You could gull
+him to your heart’s content. For instance, the other day, I had picked
+up a tomato in the curate’s garden. I told him that it was a fine, red
+apple, and he bit into it like a glutton. If you had only seen what a
+face he made. Heavens! how ugly he was!”</p>
+
+<p>“Then you don’t love him, since you are making fun of him.”</p>
+
+<p>“That wouldn’t be a reason. But I don’t like him. He is unkind to his
+little sister, and he is dirty.”</p>
+
+<p>“Don’t you care for anybody else?”</p>
+
+<p>“How does that concern you, Germain?”</p>
+
+<p>“Not at all, except that it gives me
+something to talk about. I see very well, little girl, that you have a
+sweetheart in your mind already.”</p>
+
+<p>“No, Germain, you’re wrong. I have no sweetheart yet. Perhaps one may
+come later, but since I cannot marry until I have something laid by, I
+am destined to marry late in life and with an old man.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then take an
+old man without delay.”</p>
+
+<p>“No. When I am no longer young, I shall not
+care; for the present, it is different.”</p>
+
+<p>“I see that I displease you,
+Marie; that’s clear enough,” said Germain, impatiently, and without
+stopping to weigh his words.</p>
+
+<p>Little Marie did not answer. Germain bent over her. She was sleeping.
+She had fallen back, overcome, stricken down, as it were, by slumber, as
+children are who sleep before they cease to babble.</p>
+
+<p>Germain was glad that she had not caught his last words. He felt that
+they were unwise, and he turned his back to distract his attention and
+change his thoughts.</p>
+
+<p>It was all in vain. He could neither sleep nor think of anything except
+the words he had just spoken. He walked about the fire twenty times; he
+moved away; he came back. At last, feeling himself tremble as though he
+had swallowed gunpowder, he leaned against the tree which sheltered the
+two children, and watched them as they slept.</p>
+
+<p>“I know not how it is,” thought he; “I have never noticed that little
+Marie is the prettiest girl in the countryside. She has not much color,
+but her little face is fresh as a wild rose. What a charming mouth she
+has, and how pretty her little nose is! She is not large for her age,
+but she is formed like a little quail and is as light as a bird. I
+cannot understand why they made so much fuss at home over a big, fat
+woman with a bright red face. My wife was rather slender and pale, and
+she pleased me more than any one else. This girl is very frail, but she
+is healthy, and she is pretty to watch as a white kid. And then she has
+such a gentle, frank expression. You can read her good heart in her eyes
+even though they are closed in sleep. As to wit, I must confess she
+has more than ever my dear Catherine had, and she would never become
+wearisome. She is gay, wise, industrious, loving, and she is amusing. I
+don’t know what more I could wish for....</p>
+
+<p>“But what is the use of thinking of all this?” Germain went on, trying
+to look in another direction. “My father-in-law would not hear of it,
+and all the family would think me mad! Besides, she would not have
+me herself, poor child! She thinks me too old; she told me so. She is
+unselfish, and does not mind poverty and worry, wearing old clothes, and
+suffering from hunger for two or three months every year, so long as she
+can satisfy her heart some day and give herself to the man she loves.
+She is right. I should do the same in her place, and even now, if I had
+my own way, instead of marrying a wife whom I don’t care for, I would
+choose a girl after my own heart.”</p>
+
+<p>The more Germain tried to compose himself by reasoning, the further he
+was from succeeding. He walked away a dozen steps, to lose himself in
+the fog; then, all of a sudden, he found himself on his knees beside the
+two sleeping children. Once he wished to kiss Petit-Pierre, who had
+one arm about Marie’s neck, and made such a mistake that Marie felt a
+breath, hot as fire, cross her lips, and awaking, looked about her with
+a bewildered expression, totally ignorant of all that was passing within
+his mind.</p>
+
+<p>“I didn’t see you, my poor children,” said Germain, retreating rapidly.
+“I almost stumbled over you and hurt you.”</p>
+
+<p>Little Marie was so innocent that she believed him, and fell asleep
+again. Germain walked to the opposite side of the fire, and swore to God
+that he would not stir until she had waked. He kept his word, but not
+without a struggle. He thought that he would go mad.</p>
+
+<p>At length, toward midnight, the fog lifted, and Germain could see the
+stars shining through the trees. The moon freed herself from the mist
+which had hidden her, and began to sow her diamonds over the damp moss.
+The trunks of the oak-trees remained in impressive darkness, but beyond,
+the white branches of the birch-trees seemed a long line of phantoms in
+their shrouds. The fire cast its reflection in the pool; and the frogs,
+growing accustomed to the light, hazarded a few shrill and uneasy
+notes; the rugged branches of the old trees, bristling with dim-colored
+lichens, crossed and intertwined themselves, like great gaunt arms,
+above the travelers’ heads. It was a lovely spot, but so lonely and
+so sad that Germain, unable to endure it more, began to sing and throw
+stones into the water to forget the dread weariness of solitude. He was
+anxious also to wake little Marie, and when he saw her rise and look
+about at the weather, he proposed that they start on their journey.</p>
+
+<p>“In two hours,” said he, “the approach of morning will chill the air so
+that we can’t stay here in spite of our fire. Now we can see our way,
+and we shall soon find a house which will open its doors to us, or at
+least a barn where we can pass the rest of the night under shelter.”</p>
+
+<p>Marie had no will of her own, and although she was longing to sleep, she
+made ready to follow Germain. The husbandman took his boy in his arms
+without awaking him, and beckoned Marie to come nearer, in order to
+cover her with his cloak. For she would not take her own mantle, which
+was wrapped about the child.</p>
+
+<p>When he felt the young girl so close to him, Germain, who for a time had
+succeeded in distracting his mind and raising his spirits, began to lose
+his head once more. Two or three times he strode ahead abruptly, leaving
+her to walk alone. Then seeing how hard it was for her to follow, he
+waited, drew her quickly to his side, and pressed her so tight that she
+was surprised, and even angry, though she dared not say so.</p>
+
+<p>As they knew not the direction whence they had come, they had no idea of
+that in which they were going. So they crossed the wood once more, and
+found themselves afresh before the lonely moor. Then they retraced their
+steps, and after much turning and twisting they spied a light across the
+branches.</p>
+
+<p>“Good enough! Here’s a house,” exclaimed Germain. “And the people are
+already astir, for the fire is lighted. It must be very late.”</p>
+
+<p>It was no house, but the camp-fire, which they had covered before they
+left, and which had sprung up in the breeze.</p>
+
+<p>They had tramped for two hours, only to find themselves at the very
+place from which they had started.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter illowp60" id="chapter_x">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/chapter_x.jpg" alt="(Ornament)" />
+</div>
+
+<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="X"></a>X</h2>
+<p class="center noindent fs120 bold">Beneath the Stars</p>
+
+<p class="drop-capy p2">“This time I give up,” said Germain, stamping his foot. “We are
+bewitched, that is certain, and we shall not get away from here before
+broad day. The devil is in this place!”</p>
+
+<p>“Well, it’s of no use to get angry,” said Marie. “We must take what is
+given us. Let us make a big fire. The child is so well wrapped up that
+he is in no danger, and we shall not die from a single night out of
+doors. Where have you hidden the saddle, Germain? Right in the midst of
+the holly-bushes,—what a goose you are! It’s very convenient to get it
+from there!”</p>
+
+<p>“Stop, child; hold the boy while I pull his bed from the thorns. I didn’t
+want you to scratch your hands.”</p>
+
+<p>“It’s all done. Here’s the bed, and a few scratches are not
+saber-cuts,” replied the brave girl.</p>
+
+<p>She proceeded to put the child to bed again, and Petit-Pierre was so
+sound asleep this time that he knew nothing of his last journey. Germain
+piled so much wood on the fire that the forest all about glowed with the
+light.</p>
+
+<p>Little Marie had come to the end of her powers, and although she did not
+complain, her legs would support her no longer. She was white, and her
+teeth chattered with cold and weakness. Germain took her in his arms to
+warm her. The uneasiness, the compassion, the tenderness of movement he
+could not repress, took possession of his heart and stilled his senses.
+As by a miracle his tongue was loosened, and every feeling of shame
+vanished.</p>
+
+<p>“Marie,” said he, “I like you, and I am very sorry that you don’t like
+me. If you would take me for your husband, there are no fathers, nor
+family, nor neighbors, nor arguments which could prevent me from giving
+myself to you. I know how happy you would make my children, and that you
+would teach them to love the memory of their mother, and with a quiet
+conscience I could satisfy the wishes of my heart. I have always been
+fond of you, and now I love you so well that were you to ask me to
+spend all my life in doing your pleasure, I would swear to do it on the
+instant. Please think how much I love you, and try to forget my age.
+Think that it is a wrong notion to believe that a man of thirty is old.
+Besides, I am but twenty-eight. A young girl is afraid that people will
+talk about her if she takes a man ten or twelve years older than she,
+simply because that is not the custom in our country, but I have heard
+say that in other countries people don’t look at it in this light, and
+that they had rather allow a sensible man of approved courage to support
+a young girl, than trust her to a mere boy, who may go astray, and, from
+the honest fellow they thought him, turn into a good-for-nothing.
+And then years don’t always make age. That depends on the health and
+strength a person has. When a man is used up by overwork and poverty,
+or by a bad life, he is old before twenty-five. While I—but Marie,
+you are not listening....”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes I am, Germain; I hear you perfectly,”
+answered little Marie, “but I am thinking over what my mother used to
+tell me so often: that a woman of sixty is to be pitied greatly when
+her husband is seventy or seventy-five and can no longer work to support
+her. He grows feeble, and it becomes her duty to nurse him at the very
+age when she begins to feel great need of care and rest herself, and so
+it is that the end comes in a garret.”</p>
+
+<p>“Parents do well to say so, I admit,” answered Germain, “but then
+they would sacrifice all their youth, the best years of their life,
+to calculating what will become of them at the age when a person is no
+longer good for anything, and when it is a matter of indifference which
+way death comes. But I am in no danger of starving in my old age. I am
+even going to lay by something, since I live with my wife’s parents and
+spend nothing. And then, you see, I shall love you so well that I can
+never grow old. They say that when a man is happy he keeps sound, and I
+know well that in love for you, I am younger than Bastien; for he does
+not love you; he is too stupid, too much of a child to understand how
+pretty and how good you are, and how you were made for people to court.
+Do not hate me, Marie. I am not a bad man. I made my Catherine happy,
+and on her death-bed she swore before God that she had had only
+happiness of me, and she asked me to marry again. Her spirit must have
+spoken to her child to-night. Did you not hear the words he said? How
+his little lips quivered as his eyes stared upward, watching something
+that we could not see! He was surely looking at his mother, and it was
+she who made him say that he wished you to take her place.”</p>
+
+<p>“Germain,” answered Marie, amazed and yet thoughtful, “you speak
+frankly, and everything that you say is true. I am sure that I should do
+well to love you if it did not displease your parents too much. But what
+can I do? My heart does not speak for you. I am very fond of you, but
+though your age does not make you ugly, it makes me afraid. It seems as
+if you were some such relation to me, as an uncle or a godfather, that I
+must be respectful toward you, and that there might be moments when you
+would treat me like a little girl rather than like your wife and your
+equal. And perhaps my friends would make fun of me, and although it
+would be silly to give heed to that, I think that I should be a little
+sad on my wedding-day.”</p>
+
+<p>“Those are but childish reasons, Marie; you speak like a child.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, that is true; I am a child,” said she, “and it is on that account
+I am afraid of too sensible a man. You must see that I am too young for
+you, since you just found fault with me for speaking foolishly. I can’t
+have more sense than my age allows.”</p>
+
+<p>“O Heavens! How unlucky I am to be so clumsy and to express so ill what
+I think!” cried Germain. “Marie, you don’t love me. That is the long
+and short of it. You find me too simple and too dull. If you loved me
+at all, you would not see my faults so clearly. But you do not love me.
+That is the whole story.”</p>
+
+<p>“That is not my fault,” answered she, a little hurt that he was speaking
+with less tenderness. “I am doing my best to hear you, but the more I
+try the less I can get it into my head that we ought to be husband and
+wife.”</p>
+
+<p>Germain did not answer. His head dropped into his hands, and little
+Marie could not tell whether he wept or sulked or was fast asleep. She
+felt uneasy when she saw him so cast down, and could not guess what was
+passing in his mind. But she dared not speak to him more, and as she
+was too astonished at what had passed to have any desire to sleep, she
+waited impatiently for dawn, tending the fire with care and watching
+over the child, whose existence Germain appeared to forget. Yet Germain
+was not asleep. He did not mope over his lot. He made no plans to
+encourage himself, nor schemes to entrap the girl. He suffered; he felt
+a great weight of grief at his heart. He wished that he were dead. The
+world seemed to turn against him, and if he could have wept at all, his
+tears would have come in floods. But mingled with his sorrow there was a
+feeling of anger against himself, and he felt choked, without the power
+or the wish to complain.</p>
+
+<p>When morning came, and the sounds of the country brought it to Germain’s
+senses, he lifted his head from his hands and rose. He saw that little
+Marie had slept no more than he, but he knew no words in which to tell
+her of his anxiety. He was very discouraged. Hiding the gray’s saddle
+once more in the thicket, he slung his sack over his shoulder and took
+his son by the hand.</p>
+
+<p>“Now, Marie,” said he, “we are going to try to end our journey. Do you
+wish me to take you to Ormeaux?”</p>
+
+<p>“Let us leave the woods together,” answered she, “and when we know where
+we are, we shall separate, and go our different ways.”</p>
+
+<p>Germain did not answer. He felt hurt that the girl did not ask him to
+take her as far as Ormeaux, and he did not notice that he had asked her
+in a tone well fitted to provoke a refusal.</p>
+
+<p>After a few hundred steps, they met a wood-cutter, who pointed out the
+highroad, and told them that when they had crossed the plain, one
+must turn to the right, the other to the left, to gain their different
+destinations, which were so near together that the houses of Fourche
+were in plain sight from the farm of Ormeaux, and <i>vice versa</i>.</p>
+
+<p>When they had thanked him and passed on, the wood-cutter called them
+back to ask whether they had not lost a horse.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes,” he said, “I found a pretty gray mare in my yard, where perhaps a
+wolf had driven her to seek refuge; my dogs barked the whole night long,
+and at daybreak I saw the mare under my shed. She is there now. Come
+along with me, and if you recognize her, you may take her.”</p>
+
+<p>When Germain had given a description of the gray, and felt convinced
+that it was really she, he started back to find his saddle. Little Marie
+offered to take his child to Ormeaux, whither he might go to get him
+after he had introduced himself at Fourche.</p>
+
+<p>“He is rather dirty after the night that we have passed,” said she. “I
+will brush his clothes, wash his pretty face, and comb his hair, and
+when he looks neat and clean, you can present him to your new family.”</p>
+
+<p>“Who told you that I wish to go to Fourche?” answered Germain,
+petulantly. “Perhaps I shall not go.”</p>
+
+<p>“But truly, Germain, it is your duty to go there. You will go there,”
+replied the girl.</p>
+
+<p>“You seem very anxious to have me married off, so that you may be quite
+sure that I shall not trouble you again?”</p>
+
+<p>“Germain, you must not think of that any more. It is an idea which came
+to you in the night, because this unfortunate mishap took away your
+spirits. But now you must come to your senses. I promise you to forget
+everything that you said to me, and not to breathe it to a soul.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, say what you wish. It is not my custom to deny what I have spoken.
+What I told you was true and honest, and I shall not blush for it before
+anybody.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, but if your wife were to know that just before you came you were
+thinking of another woman, it would prejudice her against you. So take
+care how you speak now. Don’t look at me before everybody with such a
+rapt expression. Think of Father Maurice, who relies on your obedience,
+and who would be enraged at me if I were to turn you from his will.
+Good-by, Germain. I take Petit-Pierre in order to force you to go to
+Fourche. He is a pledge which I keep on your behalf.”</p>
+
+<p>“So you want to go with her?” said the husbandman to his son, seeing
+that the boy had clasped Marie’s hands and was following her resolutely.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, father,” answered the child, who had heard the conversation and
+understood after his own fashion the words spoken so unguardedly before
+him. “I am going away with my dearest little Marie. You shall come to
+find me when you have done marrying, but I wish Marie to be my little
+mother.”</p>
+
+<p>“You see how much he wishes it,” said Germain to the girl. “Listen to
+me, Petit-Pierre,” he added. “I wish her to be your mother and to stay
+with you always. It is she who does not wish to. Try to make her grant
+you what she has denied me.”</p>
+
+<p>“Don’t be afraid, father, I shall make her say yes. Little Marie does
+everything that I wish.”</p>
+
+<p>He walked away with the young girl. Germain stood alone, sadder and more
+irresolute than ever.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter illowp60" id="chapter_xi">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/chapter_xi.jpg" alt="(Ornament)" />
+</div>
+
+<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="XI"></a>XI</h2>
+<p class="center noindent fs120 bold">The Belle of the Village</p>
+
+<p class="drop-capy p2">And after all, when he had brushed the dust of travel from his clothes
+and from his horse’s harness, when he had mounted the gray, and when he
+had learned the road, he felt that there was no retreat and that he must
+forget that anxious night as though it had been a dangerous dream.</p>
+
+<p>He found Father Leonard seated on a trim bench of spinach-green. The six
+stone steps leading up to the door showed that the house had a cellar.
+The walls of the garden and of the hemp-field were plastered with lime
+and sand. It was a handsome house, and might almost have been mistaken
+for the dwelling of a bourgeois.</p>
+
+<p>Germain’s future father-in-law came forward to meet him, and having
+plied him, for five minutes, with questions concerning his entire
+family, he added that conventional phrase with which one passer-by
+addresses another concerning the object of his journey: “So you are
+taking a little trip in this part of the country?”</p>
+
+<p>“I have come to see you,” replied the husbandman, “to give you this
+little present of game with my father’s compliments, and to tell you
+from him that you ought to know with what intentions I come to your
+house.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, ho!” said Father Leonard, laughing and tapping his capacious
+stomach, “I see, I understand, I am with you, and,” he added with a
+wink, “you will not be the only one to pay your court, young man. There
+are three already in the house dancing attendance like you. I never turn
+anybody away, and I should find it hard to say yes or no to any of them,
+for they are all good matches. Yet, on account of Father Maurice and for
+the sake of the rich fields you till, I hope that it may be you. But my
+daughter is of age and mistress of her own affairs. She will do as
+she likes. Go in and introduce yourself. I hope that you will draw the
+prize.”</p>
+
+<p>“I beg your pardon,” answered Germain, amazed to find himself an extra
+when he had counted on being alone in the field. “I was not aware that
+your daughter was supplied already with suitors, and I did not come to
+quarrel over her.”</p>
+
+<p>“If you supposed that because you were slow in coming, my daughter would
+be left unprovided for, you were greatly mistaken, my son,” replied
+Father Leonard with unshaken good humor. “Catherine has the wherewithal
+to attract suitors, and her only difficulty lies in choosing. But come
+in; don’t lose heart. The woman is worth a struggle.”</p>
+
+<p>And pushing in Germain by the shoulders with boisterous gaiety, he
+called to his daughter as they entered the house:</p>
+
+<p>“So, Catherine, here is another!”</p>
+
+<p>This cordial but unmannerly method of introduction to the widow, in
+the presence of her other devotees, completed Germain’s distress and
+embarrassment. He felt the awkwardness of his position, and stood for a
+few moments without daring to look upon the beauty and her court.</p>
+
+<p>The Widow Guérin had a good figure and did not lack freshness, but her
+expression and her dress displeased Germain the instant he saw her.
+She had a bold, self-satisfied look, and her cap, edged with three lace
+flounces, her silk apron, and her fichu of fine black lace were little
+in accord with the staid and sober widow he had pictured to himself.</p>
+
+<p>Her elaborate dress and forward manners inclined Germain to judge the
+widow old and ugly, although she was certainly not either. He thought
+that such finery and playful manners might well suit little Marie’s
+years and wit, but that the widow’s fun was labored and over bold, and
+that she wore her fine clothes in bad taste.</p>
+
+<p>The three suitors were seated at a table loaded with wines and meats
+which were spread out for their use throughout the Sunday morning; for
+Father Leonard liked to show off his wealth, and the widow was not sorry
+to display her pretty china and keep a table like a rich lady. Germain,
+simple and unsuspecting as he was, watched everything with a penetrating
+glance, and for the first time in his life he kept on the defensive when
+he drank. Father Leonard obliged him to sit down with his rivals, and
+taking a chair opposite he treated him with great politeness, and talked
+to him rather than to the others.</p>
+
+<p>The present of game, despite the breach Germain had made on his own
+account, was still plenteous enough to produce its effect. The widow
+did not look unaware of its presence, and the suitors cast disdainful
+glances in its direction.</p>
+
+<p>Germain felt ill at ease in this company, and did not eat heartily.
+Father Leonard poked fun at him.</p>
+
+<p>“You look very melancholy,” said he, “and you are ill-using your glass.
+You must not allow love to spoil your appetite, for a fasting lover can
+make no such pretty speeches as he whose ideas are brightened with a
+drop of wine.”</p>
+
+<p>Germain was mortified at being thought already in love, and the
+artificial manner of the widow, who kept lowering her eyes with a
+smile as a woman does who is sure of her calculations, made him long to
+protest against his pretended surrender; but fearing to appear uncivil,
+he smiled and held his peace.</p>
+
+<p>He thought the widow’s beaus, three bumpkins. They must have been rich
+for her to admit of their pretensions. One was over forty, and fat as
+Father Leonard; another had lost an eye, and drank like a sot. The
+third was a young fellow, and nice-looking too; but he kept insisting on
+displaying his wit, and would say things so silly that they were
+painful to hear. Yet the widow laughed as though she admired all his
+foolishness, and made small proof of her good taste thereby. At first
+Germain thought her infatuated with him, but soon he perceived that
+he himself was especially encouraged, and that they wished him to make
+fresh advances. For this reason he felt an increasing stiffness and
+severity which he took no pains to conceal.</p>
+
+<p>The time came for mass, and they rose from table to go thither in
+company. It was necessary to walk as far as Mers, a good half-league
+away, and Germain was so tired that he longed to take a nap before they
+went; but he was not in the habit of missing mass, and he started with
+the others.</p>
+
+<p>The roads were filled with people, and the widow marched proudly along,
+escorted by her three suitors, taking an arm, first of one and then of
+another, and carrying her head high with an air of importance. She was
+eager to display the fourth to the eyes of the passers-by; but Germain
+felt so ridiculous to be dragged along in the train of a petticoat
+where all the world might see, that he kept at a respectable distance,
+chatting with Father Leonard, and succeeded in occupying his attention
+so well that they did not look at all as if they belonged to the party.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter illowp60" id="chapter_xii">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/chapter_xii.jpg" alt="(Ornament)" />
+</div>
+
+<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="XII"></a>XII</h2>
+<p class="center noindent fs120 bold">The Master</p>
+
+<p class="drop-capy p2">When they reached the village, the widow halted to allow them to catch
+up. She was bent upon making her entry with all her train; but Germain,
+denying her this pleasure, deserted Father Leonard, and after conversing
+with several acquaintances, he entered the church by another door. The
+widow was vexed.</p>
+
+<p>When mass was over, she made her appearance in triumph on the lawn,
+where dancing was going on, and she began her dance with her three
+lovers in turn. Germain watched her and saw that she danced well, but
+with affectation.</p>
+
+<p>“So, you don’t ask my daughter?” said Leonard, tapping him on the
+shoulder. “You are too easily frightened.”</p>
+
+<p>“I have not danced since I lost my wife,” answered the husbandman.</p>
+
+<p>“But now that you are looking for another, mourning’s over in heart as
+well as in clothes.”</p>
+
+<p>“That’s no reason, Father Leonard. Besides, I am too old and I don’t
+care for dancing.”</p>
+
+<p>“Listen,” said Father Leonard, drawing him toward a retired corner,
+“when you entered my house you were vexed to see the place already
+besieged, and I see that you are very proud. But that is not reasonable,
+my boy. My daughter is used to a great deal of attention, particularly
+since she left off her mourning two years ago, and it is not her place
+to lead you on.”</p>
+
+<p>“Has your daughter been thinking of marrying for two years already
+without making her choice?” asked Germain.</p>
+
+<p>“She doesn’t wish to hurry, and she is right. Although she has lively
+manners, and although you may not think that she reflects a great deal,
+she is a woman of excellent common sense, and knows very well what she
+is about.”</p>
+
+<p>“It does not appear to me so,” said Germain ingenuously, “for she has
+three suitors in her train, and if she knew her own mind, there are two
+of them, at least, whom she would find superfluous and request to stay
+at home.”</p>
+
+<p>“Why, Germain, you don’t understand at all. She doesn’t wish the old
+man, nor the blind man, nor the young man, I am quite certain; yet if
+she were to turn them off, people would think that she wished to remain
+a widow, and nobody else would come.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, I see. These three are used for a guide-post.”</p>
+
+<p>“As you like. What is the harm if they are satisfied?”</p>
+
+<p>“Every man to his taste,” said Germain.</p>
+
+<p>“I see that yours is different. Now supposing that you are chosen, then
+they would leave the coast clear.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, supposing! and meanwhile how much time should I have to whistle?”</p>
+
+<p>“That depends on your persuasive tongue, I suppose. Until now, my
+daughter has always thought that she would pass the best part of her
+life while she was being courted, and she is in no hurry to become the
+servant of one man when she can order so many others about. So she will
+please herself as long as the game amuses her; but if you please her
+more than the game, the game will cease. Only you must not lose courage.
+Come back every Sunday, dance with her, let her know that you are
+amongst her followers, and if she finds you more agreeable and better
+bred than the others, some fine day she will tell you so, no doubt.”</p>
+
+<p>“Excuse me, Father Leonard. Your daughter has the right to do as she
+pleases, and it is not my business to blame her. If I were in her place,
+I should do differently. I should be more frank, and should not waste
+the time of men who have, doubtless, something better to do than dancing
+attendance on a woman who makes fun of them. Still, if that is what
+amuses her and makes her happy, it is no affair of mine. Only there is
+one thing I must tell you which is a little embarrassing, since you have
+mistaken my intentions from the start, for you are so sure of what is
+not so, that you have given me no chance to explain. You must know,
+then, that I did not come here to ask for your daughter in marriage, but
+merely to buy a pair of oxen which you are going to take to market next
+week, and which my father-in-law thinks will suit him.”</p>
+
+<p>“I understand, Germain,” answered Leonard very calmly; “you changed your
+plans when you saw my daughter with her admirers. It is as you please.
+It seems that what attracts some people repels others, and you
+are perfectly welcome to withdraw, for you have not declared your
+intentions. If you wish seriously to buy my cattle, come and see them in
+the pasture, and whether we make a bargain or not, you will come back to
+dinner with us before you return.”</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t wish to trouble you,” answered Germain. “Perhaps you have
+something to do here. I myself am tired of watching the dancing and
+standing idle. I will go to see your cattle, and I will soon join you at
+your house.”</p>
+
+<p>Then Germain made his escape, and walked away toward the meadows where
+Leonard had pointed out to him some of his cattle. It was true that
+Father Maurice intended to buy, and Germain thought that if he were
+to bring home a fine pair of oxen at a reasonable price, he might more
+easily receive a pardon for wilfully relinquishing the purpose of his
+journey. He walked rapidly, and soon found himself at some distance from
+Ormeaux. Then of a sudden, he felt a desire to kiss his son and to see
+little Marie once again, although he had lost all hope and even had
+chased away the thought that he might some day owe his happiness to her.
+Everything that he had heard and seen: this woman, flirtatious and vain;
+this father, at once shrewd and short-sighted, encouraging his daughter
+in habits of pride and untruth; this city luxury, which seemed to him a
+transgression against the dignity of country manners; this time wasted
+in foolish, empty words; this home so different from his own; and above
+all, that deep uneasiness which comes to a laborer of the fields when
+he leaves his accustomed toil: all the trouble and annoyance of the past
+few hours made Germain long to be with his child and with his little
+neighbor. Even had he not been in love, he would have sought her to
+divert his mind and raise his spirits to their wonted level.</p>
+
+<p>But he looked in vain over the neighboring meadows. He saw neither
+little Marie nor little Pierre, and yet it was the hour when shepherds
+are in the fields. There was a large flock in a pasture. He asked of
+a young boy who tended them whether the sheep belonged to the farm of
+Ormeaux.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes,” said the child.</p>
+
+<p>“Are you the shepherd? Do boys tend the flocks of the farm, amongst
+you?”</p>
+
+<p>“No, I am taking care of them to-day, because the shepherdess went away.
+She was ill.”</p>
+
+<p>“But have you not a new shepherdess, who came this morning?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, surely; but she, too, has gone already.”</p>
+
+<p>“What! gone? Did she not have a child with her?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, a little boy who cried. They both went away after they had been
+here two hours.”</p>
+
+<p>“Went away! Where?”</p>
+
+<p>“Where they came from, I suppose. I didn’t ask them.”</p>
+
+<p>“But why did they go away?” asked Germain, growing more and more uneasy.</p>
+
+<p>“How the deuce do I know?”</p>
+
+<p>“Did they not agree about wages? Yet that must have been settled
+before.”</p>
+
+<p>“I can tell you nothing about it. I saw them come and go, nothing more.”</p>
+
+<p>Germain walked toward the farm and questioned the farmer. Nobody could
+give him an explanation; but after speaking with the farmer, he felt
+sure that the girl had gone without saying a word, and had taken the
+weeping child with her.</p>
+
+<p>“Can they have been ill-treating my son?” cried Germain.</p>
+
+<p>“It was your son, then? How did he happen to be with the little girl?
+Where do you come from, and what is your name?”</p>
+
+<p>Germain, seeing that after the fashion of the country they were
+answering him with questions, stamped his foot impatiently, and asked to
+speak with the master.</p>
+
+<p>The master was away. Usually, he did not spend the whole day when he
+came to the farm. He was on horseback, and he had ridden off to one of
+his other farms.</p>
+
+<p>“But, honestly,” said Germain, growing very anxious, “can’t you tell me
+why this girl left?”</p>
+
+<p>The farmer and his wife exchanged an odd smile. Then the former answered
+that he knew nothing, and that it was no business of his. All that
+Germain could learn was that both girl and child had started off toward
+Fourche. He rushed back to Fourche. The widow and her lovers were still
+away; so was Father Leonard. The maid told him that a girl and a child
+had come to ask for him, but that as she did not know them, she did not
+wish to let them in, and had advised them to go to Mers.</p>
+
+<p>“And why did you refuse to let them in?” said Germain, angrily. “People
+are very suspicious in this country, where nobody opens the door to a
+neighbor.”</p>
+
+<p>“But you see,” answered the maid, “in a house as rich as this, I
+must keep my eyes open. When the master is away, I am responsible for
+everything, and I cannot open the door to the first person that comes
+along.”</p>
+
+<p>“It is a bad custom,” said Germain, “and I had rather be poor than
+to live in constant fear like that. Good-by to you, young woman, and
+good-by to your vile country.”</p>
+
+<p>He made inquiries at the neighboring house. The shepherdess and child
+had been seen. As the boy had left Belair suddenly, carelessly dressed,
+with his blouse torn, and his little lambskin over his shoulders, and
+as little Marie was necessarily poorly clad at all times, they had been
+taken for beggars. People had offered them bread. The girl had accepted
+a crust for the child, who was hungry, then she had walked away with him
+very quickly, and had entered the forest.</p>
+
+<p>Germain thought a minute, then he asked whether the farmer of Ormeaux
+had not been at Fourche.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes,” they answered, “he passed on horseback a few seconds after the
+girl.”</p>
+
+<p>“Was he chasing her?”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, so you understand?” answered the village publican, with a laugh.
+“Certain it is that he is the devil of a fellow for running after girls.
+But I don’t believe that he caught her; though, after all, if he had
+seen her—”</p>
+
+<p>“That is enough, thank you!” And he flew rather than ran to Leonard’s
+stable. Throwing the saddle on the gray’s back, he leaped upon it, and
+set off at full gallop toward the wood of Chanteloube.</p>
+
+<p>His heart beat hard with fear and anger; the sweat poured down his
+forehead; he spurred the mare till the blood came, though the gray
+needed no pressing when she felt herself on the road to her stable.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter illowp60" id="chapter_xiii">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/chapter_xiii.jpg" alt="(Ornament)" />
+</div>
+
+<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="XIII"></a>XIII</h2>
+<p class="center noindent fs120 bold">The Old Woman</p>
+
+<p class="drop-capy p2">Germain came soon to the spot where he had passed the night on the
+border of the pool. The fire was smoking still. An old woman was
+gathering the remnants of the wood little Marie had piled there. Germain
+stopped to question her. She was deaf and mistook his inquiries.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, my son,” said she, “this is the Devil’s Pool. It is an evil spot,
+and you must not approach it without throwing in three stones with your
+left hand, while you cross yourself with the right. That drives away the
+spirits. Otherwise trouble comes to those who go around it.”</p>
+
+<p>“I am not asking about that,” said Germain, moving nearer her, and
+screaming at the top of his lungs. “Have you seen a girl and a child
+walking through the wood?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes,” said the old woman, “a little child was drowned there.”</p>
+
+<p>Germain shook from head to foot; but happily the hag added:</p>
+
+<p>“That happened a long time ago. In memory of the accident they raised
+a handsome cross there. But one stormy night, the bad spirits threw it
+into the water. You can still see one end of it. If anybody were unlucky
+enough to pass the night here, he could never find his way out before
+daylight. He must walk and walk, and though he went two hundred leagues
+into the forest, he must always return to the same place.”</p>
+
+<p>The peasant’s imagination was aroused in spite of himself, and the
+thought of the evils that must come in order that the old woman’s
+assertions might be vindicated, took so firm a hold of his mind that he
+felt chilled through and through. Hopeless of obtaining more news, he
+remounted, and traversed the woods afresh, calling Pierre with all his
+might, whistling, cracking his whip, and snapping the branches that the
+whole forest might reëcho with the noise of his coming; then he
+listened for an answering voice, but he heard no sound save the cowbells
+scattered through the glades, and the wild cries of the swine as they
+fought over the acorns.</p>
+
+<p>At length Germain heard behind him the noise of a horse following in
+his traces, and a man of middle age, dark, sturdy, and dressed after the
+city fashion, called to him to stop. Germain had never seen the farmer
+of Ormeaux, but his instinctive rage told him at once that this was
+the man. He turned, and eyeing him from head to foot, waited for him to
+speak.</p>
+
+<p>“Have not you seen a young girl of fifteen or sixteen go by with a small
+boy?” asked the farmer, with an assumed air of indifference, although he
+was evidently ill at ease.</p>
+
+<p>“What do you want of her?” answered Germain, taking no pains to conceal
+his anger.</p>
+
+<p>“I might tell you that that is none of your business, my friend. But
+as I have no reasons for secrecy, I shall tell you that she is a
+shepherdess whom I engaged for a year, before I knew her. When I saw
+her, she looked too young and frail to work on the farm. I thanked her,
+but I wished to pay the expenses of her short journey, and while my back
+was turned, she went off in a huff. She was in such a hurry that she
+forgot even some of her belongings and her purse, which has certainly
+not much in it, probably but a few pennies; but since I was going in
+this direction, I hoped to meet her, and give her back the things which
+she left behind, as well as what I owe her.”</p>
+
+<p>Germain had too honest a heart not to pause at hearing a story which,
+however unlikely, was not impossible. He fastened his penetrating gaze
+on the farmer, who submitted to the examination with a plentiful supply
+of impudence or of good faith.</p>
+
+<p>“I wish to get at the bottom of this matter,” said Germain; “and,”
+continued he, suppressing his indignation, “the girl lives in my
+village. I know her. She can’t be far away. Let’s ride on together; we
+shall find her, no doubt.”</p>
+
+<p>“You are right,” said the farmer; “let’s move on; but if we do not find
+her before we reach the end of this road, I shall give up, for I must
+turn off toward Ardentes.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, oh!” thought the peasant, “I shall not part with you, even if I
+have to follow you around the Devil’s Pool for twenty-four hours.”</p>
+
+<p>“Stop,” said Germain suddenly, fixing his eyes on a clump of broom which
+waved in a peculiar manner. “Halloa! halloa! Petit Pierre, is that you,
+my child?”</p>
+
+<p>The boy recognized his father’s voice, and came out from the broom
+leaping like a young deer; but when he saw Germain in company with the
+farmer, he stopped dismayed, and stood irresolute. “Come, my Pierre,
+come. It is I,” cried the husbandman, as he leaped from his horse and
+ran toward his boy to take him in his arms; “and where is little Marie?”</p>
+
+<p>“She is hiding there, because she is afraid of that dreadful black man,
+and so am I.”</p>
+
+<p>“You needn’t be afraid. I am here. Marie, Marie. It is I.”</p>
+
+<p>Marie crept toward them, but the moment she saw Germain with the farmer
+close behind, she sprang forward, and throwing herself into his arms,
+clung to him as a daughter to her father.</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, my brave Germain!” she cried, “you will defend me. I am not afraid
+when you are near.”</p>
+
+<p>Germain shuddered. He looked at Marie. She was pale; her clothes were
+torn by the thorns which had scratched her as she passed, rushing toward
+the brake like a stag chased by the hunters. But neither shame nor
+despair were in her face.</p>
+
+<p>“Your master wishes to speak to you,” said he, his eyes fixed on her
+features.</p>
+
+<p>“My master!” she exclaimed fiercely; “that man is no master of mine, and
+he never shall be. You, Germain, you are my master. I want you to take
+me home with you. I will be your servant for nothing.”</p>
+
+<p>The farmer advanced, feigning impatience. “Little girl,” said he, “you
+left something behind at the farm, which I am bringing back to you.”</p>
+
+<p>“No, you are not, sir,” answered little Marie. “I didn’t forget
+anything, and I have nothing to ask of you.”</p>
+
+<p>“Listen a moment,” returned the farmer. “It’s I who have something to
+tell you. Come with me. Don’t be afraid. It’s only a word or two.”</p>
+
+<p>“You may say them aloud. I have no secrets with you.”</p>
+
+<p>“At any rate, do take your money.”</p>
+
+<p>“My money? You owe me nothing, thank God!”</p>
+
+<p>“I suspected as much,” said Germain under his breath, “but I don’t care,
+Marie. Listen to what he has to say to you, for—I am curious to know.
+You can tell me afterward. Go up to his horse. I shall not lose sight of
+you.”</p>
+
+<p>Marie took three steps toward the farmer. He bent over the pommel of his
+saddle, and lowering his voice he said:</p>
+
+<p>“Little girl, here is a bright golden louis for you. Don’t say anything
+about it; do you hear? I shall say that I found you too frail to work
+on my farm. There will be no more talk about that. I shall be passing by
+your house one of these days; and if you have not said anything, I will
+give you something more; and then if you are more sensible, you have
+only to speak. I will take you home with me, or I will come at dusk and
+talk with you in the meadows. What present would you like me to bring
+you?”</p>
+
+<p>“Here, sir, is the present I have for you,” answered little Marie,
+aloud, as she threw the golden louis in his face with all her might. “I
+thank you heartily, and I beg that if you come anywhere near our house,
+you will be good enough to let me know. All the boys in the neighborhood
+will go out to welcome you, because, where I live, we are very fond of
+gentlemen who try to make love to poor girls. You shall see. They will
+be on the lookout for you.”</p>
+
+<p>“You lie with your dirty tongue,” cried the farmer, raising his stick
+with a dangerous air. “You wish to make people believe what is not so,
+but you shall never get a penny out of me. We know what kind of a girl
+you are.”</p>
+
+<p>Marie drew back, frightened, and Germain sprang to the bridle of the
+farmer’s horse and shook it violently.</p>
+
+<p>“I understand now,” said he; “it is easy to see what is going on. Get
+down, my man, get down; I want to talk to you.”</p>
+
+<p>The farmer was not eager to take up the quarrel. Anxious to escape,
+he set spurs to his horse and tried to loosen the peasant’s grasp by
+striking down his hands with a cane; but Germain dodged the blow, and
+seizing hold of his antagonist’s leg, he unseated him and flung him
+to the earth. The farmer regained his feet, but although he defended
+himself vigorously, he was knocked down once more. Germain held him to
+the ground. Then he said:</p>
+
+<p>“Poor coward, I could thrash you if I wished. But I don’t want to do
+you an injury, and, besides, no amount of punishment would help your
+conscience—but you shall not stir from this spot until you beg the
+girl’s pardon, on your knees.”</p>
+
+<p>The farmer understood this sort of thing, and wished to take it all as a
+joke. He made believe that his offense was not serious, since it lay
+in words alone, and protested that he was perfectly willing to ask her
+pardon, provided he might kiss the girl afterward. Finally, he proposed
+that they go and drink a pint of wine at the nearest tavern, and so part
+good friends.</p>
+
+<p>“You are disgusting!” answered Germain, rubbing his victim’s head in the
+dirt, “and I never wish to see your nasty face again. So blush, if you
+are able, and when you come to our village, you had better slink along
+Sneak’s Alley.”<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p>
+
+<p>He picked up the farmer’s holly-stick, broke it over his knee to show
+the strength of his wrists, and threw away the pieces with disgust. Then
+giving one hand to his son and the other to little Marie, he walked
+away, still trembling with anger.</p>
+
+
+<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTE:</h3>
+<div class="footnote">
+<p><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="label">[2]</a> This is the road, which, diverging from the principal street at the
+entrance of villages, makes a circuit about them. Persons who are in
+dread of receiving some well deserved insult, are supposed to take this
+route to escape attention.</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter illowp60" id="chapter_xiv">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/chapter_xiv.jpg" alt="(Ornament)" />
+</div>
+
+<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="XIV"></a>XIV</h2>
+<p class="center noindent fs120 bold">The Return to the Farm</p>
+
+<p class="drop-capy p2">At the end of fifteen minutes they had left the heath behind them.
+They trotted along the highroad, and the gray whinnied at each familiar
+object. Petit-Pierre told his father as much as he could understand of
+what had passed.</p>
+
+<p>“When we reached the farm,” said he, “that man came to speak to my Marie
+in the fold where we had gone to see the pretty sheep. I had climbed
+into the manger to play, and that man did not see me. Then he said good
+morning to Marie, and he kissed her.”</p>
+
+<p>“You allowed him to kiss you, Marie?” said Germain, trembling with
+anger.</p>
+
+<p>“I thought it was a civility, a custom of the place to new-comers, just
+as at your farm the grandmother kisses the young girls who enter her
+service to show that she adopts them and will be a mother to them.”</p>
+
+<p>“And next,” went on little Pierre, who was proud to have an adventure to
+tell of, “<i>that man</i> told you something wicked, which you have told me
+never to repeat and not even remember; so I forgot it right away. Still,
+if father wishes, I will tell him what it was—”</p>
+
+<p>“No, Pierre, I don’t wish to hear, and I don’t wish you ever to think of
+it again.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then I will forget it all over again,” replied the child. “Next, <i>that
+man</i> seemed to be growing angry because Marie told him that she was
+going away. He told her he would give her whatever she wanted,—a
+hundred francs! And my Marie grew angry too. Then he came toward her as
+if he wished to hurt her. I was afraid, and I ran to Marie and cried.
+Then <i>that man</i> said: ‘What’s that? Where did that child come from? Put
+it out,’ and he raised his cane to beat me. But my Marie prevented him,
+and she spoke to him this way: ‘We will talk later, sir; now I must take
+this child back to Fourche, and then I shall return.’ And as soon as
+he had left the fold, my Marie spoke to me this way: ‘We must run, my
+Pierre; we must get away as quickly as we can, for this is a wicked
+man and he is trying to do us harm.’ Then when we had gone back of the
+farm-houses, we crossed a little meadow, and we went to Fourche to find
+you. But you were not there, and they wouldn’t let us wait. And then
+<i>that man</i>, riding his black horse, came behind us, and we ran on as
+fast as we could and hid in the woods. And then he followed us, and
+when we heard him coming, we hid again. And then, when he had passed,
+we began to run toward home, and then you came and found us, and that is
+how it all happened. I haven’t forgotten anything, have I, my Marie?”</p>
+
+<p>“No, my Pierre, that is the whole truth. Now, Germain, you must be my
+witness, and tell everybody in the village that if I did not stay there
+it was not from want of courage and industry.”</p>
+
+<p>“And, Marie, I want to ask of you whether a man of twenty-eight is too
+old when there is a woman to be defended and an insult to be revenged.
+I should like to know whether Bastien or any other pretty boy, ten years
+better off than I, would not have been knocked to pieces by <i>that man</i>,
+as Petit-Pierre says. What do you think?”</p>
+
+<p>“I think, Germain, that you have done me a great service, and that I
+shall be grateful all my life.”</p>
+
+<p>“Is that all?”</p>
+
+<p>“Little father,” said the child, “I forgot to ask little Marie what I
+promised. I have not had time yet, but I will speak to her at home, and I
+will speak to my grandmother too.”</p>
+
+<p>The child’s promise set Germain to thinking. He must explain his conduct
+to his family and give his objections to the widow Guam, and all the
+while conceal the true reasons which had made him so judicious and so
+decided. When a man is proud and happy, it seems an easy task to thrust
+his happiness upon others, but to be repulsed on one side and blamed on
+the other is not a very pleasant position.</p>
+
+<p>Fortunately, Petit-Pierre was fast asleep when they reached the farm,
+and Germain put him to bed undisturbed. Then he began upon all sorts of
+explanations, Father Maurice, seated on a three-legged stool before the
+door, listened with gravity; and, although he was ill-content with
+the result of the journey, when Germain told him about the widow’s
+systematic coquetry, and demanded of his father-in-law whether he had
+the time to go and pay his court fifty-two Sundays in the year at the
+risk of being dismissed in the end, the old man nodded his head in
+assent and answered: “You were not wrong, Germain; that could never be.”
+And then, when Germain described how he had been obliged to bring back
+little Marie, with the utmost haste, in order to protect her from the
+insults or perhaps from the violence of a wicked master, Father Maurice
+nodded approvingly again and said: “You were not wrong, Germain; that
+was right.”</p>
+
+<p>When Germain had told his story, and had set forth all his reasons, the
+old farmer and his wife heaved deep, simultaneous sighs of resignation,
+and looked at each other. Then the head of the house rose and said:
+“God’s will be done. Love can’t be made to order.”</p>
+
+<p>“Come to supper, Germain,” said his mother-in-law. “It is unfortunate
+that this did not come to a better end, but, after all, it seems that
+God did not wish it. We must look elsewhere.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes,” added the old man, “as my wife says, we must look elsewhere.”</p>
+
+<p>There was no more noise at the house, and on the morrow, when
+Petit-Pierre rose with the larks at dawn, he was no longer excited
+by the extraordinary events of the preceding days. Like other little
+peasants of his age, he became indifferent, forgot everything that had
+been running in his head, and thought only of playing with his brothers,
+and of pretending to drive the horses and oxen like a man. Germain
+plunged into his work, and tried to forget, too; but he became so
+absent-minded and so sad that everybody noticed it. He never spoke to
+little Marie, he never even looked at her, and yet had anybody asked him
+in what meadow she was, or by what road she had passed, there was not a
+moment in the day when he could not have answered if he would. He dared
+not ask his family to take her in at the farm during the winter, and yet
+he knew well how she must suffer from want. But she did not suffer; and
+Mother Guillette could not understand how her little store of wood never
+grew less, and how her shed was full in the morning, although she
+had left it almost empty at night. It was the same with the wheat and
+potatoes. Somebody entered by the garret window, and emptied a sack on
+the floor without awaking a soul or leaving a trace of his coming. The
+widow was at once uneasy and delighted. She made her daughter promise to
+tell nobody, and said that were people to know of the miracle performed
+at her house they would take her for a witch. She felt confident that
+the devil had a share in it, but she was in no hurry to pick a quarrel
+with him by calling down the priest’s exorcisms on the house. It would
+be time enough, she said, when Satan should come to demand her soul in
+return for his gifts.</p>
+
+<p>Little Marie understood the truth better, but she dared not speak to
+Germain, for fear of seeing him return to his dreams of marriage, and,
+before him, she pretended to perceive nothing.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter illowp60" id="chapter_xv">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/chapter_xv.jpg" alt="(Ornament)" />
+</div>
+
+<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="XV"></a>XV</h2>
+<p class="center noindent fs120 bold">Mother Maurice</p>
+
+<p class="drop-capy p2">One day, Mother Maurice was alone in the orchard with Germain, and spoke
+to him kindly:</p>
+
+<p>“My poor son, I believe you are not well. You don’t eat as well as
+usual; you never laugh; you talk less and less. Perhaps one of us, or
+all of us, have hurt your feelings, without knowing and without wishing
+it.”</p>
+
+<p>“No, my mother,” answered Germain, “you have always been as kind to
+me as the mother who brought me into the world, and I should be very
+ungrateful if I were to complain of you or your husband, or of anybody
+in the household.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then, my child, it is the sorrow for your wife’s death which comes back
+to you. Instead of growing lighter with time, your grief becomes worse,
+and as your father has said very wisely, it is absolutely necessary for
+you to marry again.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, my mother, that is my opinion, but the women whom you advised
+me to ask don’t suit me. Whenever I see them, instead of forgetting my
+Catherine, I think of her all the more.”</p>
+
+<p>“Apparently that’s because we have n’t been able to understand your
+taste. You must help us by telling us the truth. There must be a woman
+somewhere who is made for you, for God does n’t make anybody without
+placing his happiness in somebody else. So if you know where to find
+this woman whom you need, take her, and be she pretty or ugly, young or
+old, rich or poor, we have made up our minds, my husband and I, to give
+our consent, for we are tired of seeing you so sad, and we can never be
+happy while you are sorrowful.”</p>
+
+<p>“My mother, you are as kind as the kind Lord, and so is my father,”
+answered Germain; “but your compassion brings small help to my troubles,
+for the girl I love doesn’t care for me.”</p>
+
+<p>“She is too young, then? It’s foolish for you to love a young girl.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, mother dear, I have been foolish enough to love a young girl, and
+it’s my fault. I do my best to stop thinking of it, but, working or
+sleeping, at mass or in bed, with my children or with you, I can think
+of nothing else.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then it’s like a fate cast over you, Germain. There’s but one remedy,
+and it is that this girl must change her mind and listen to you. It’s my
+duty to look into this, and see whether it’s practicable. Tell me where
+she lives, and what’s her name.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, my dear mother, I dare not,” said Germain, “because you will make
+fun of me.”</p>
+
+<p>“I shall not make fun of you, Germain, because you are in trouble, and I
+don’t wish to make it harder for you. Is it Fanchette?”</p>
+
+<p>“No, mother, of course not.”</p>
+
+<p>“Or Rosette?”</p>
+
+<p>“No.”</p>
+
+<p>“Tell me, then, for I shall never finish if I must name every girl in
+the countryside.”</p>
+
+<p>Germain bowed his head, and could not bring himself to answer.</p>
+
+<p>“Very good,” said Mother Maurice, “I shall let you alone for to-day;
+to-morrow, perhaps, you will be more confidential with me, or possibly
+your sister-in-law will question you more cleverly.” And she picked up
+her basket to go and spread her linen on the bushes.</p>
+
+<p>Germain acted like children who make up their minds when they see that
+they are no longer attracting attention. He followed his mother, and at
+length, trembling, he named Marie of Guillette.</p>
+
+<p>Great was the surprise of Mother Maurice. Marie was the last person she
+would have dreamed of. But she had the delicacy not to cry out, and made
+her comments to herself. Then seeing that her silence hurt Germain, she
+stretched out her basket toward him and said:</p>
+
+<p>“Is there any reason for not helping me at my work. Carry this load, and
+come and talk with me. Have you reflected well, Germain? Are you fully
+decided?”</p>
+
+<p>“Alas, dear mother, you mustn’t speak in that way. I should be decided
+if I had a chance of success, but as I could never be heard, I have only
+made up my mind to cure myself, if I can.”</p>
+
+<p>“And if you can’t.”</p>
+
+<p>“There is an end to everything, Mother Maurice: when the horse is laden
+too heavily, he falls, and when the cow has nothing to eat, she dies.”</p>
+
+<p>“Do you mean to say that you will die, if you do not succeed. God grant
+not, Germain. I don’t like to hear a man like you talk of those things;
+for what he says, he thinks. You are very brave, and weakness
+is dangerous for strong men. Take heart; I can’t conceive that a
+poverty-stricken girl, whom you have honored so much as to ask her to
+marry you, will refuse you.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yet it’s the truth: she does refuse me.”</p>
+
+<p>“And what reasons does she give you?”</p>
+
+<p>“That you have always been kind to her, and that her family owes a great
+deal to yours, and that she doesn’t wish to displease you by turning me
+away from a rich marriage.”</p>
+
+<p>“If she says that, she proves her good sense, and shows what an honest
+girl she is. But, Germain, she doesn’t cure you; for of course she
+tells you that she loves you and would marry you if we were willing?”</p>
+
+<p>“That’s the worst part of all. She says that her heart can never be
+mine.”</p>
+
+<p>“If she says what she doesn’t think in order to keep you at a safer
+distance, the child deserves our love, and we should pass over her youth
+on account of her great good sense.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes,” said Germain, struck by a hope he had never held before; “that
+would be very wise and right of her! But if she is so sensible, I am
+sure it is because I displease her.”</p>
+
+<p>“Germain,” said Mother Maurice, “you must promise me not to worry for a
+whole week. Keep from tormenting yourself, eat, sleep, and be as gay as
+you used to be. For my part, I’ll speak to my husband, and if I gain
+his consent, you shall know the girl’s real feelings toward you.”</p>
+
+<p>Germain promised, and the week passed without a single word in private
+from Father Maurice, who seemed to suspect nothing. The husbandman did
+his best to look calm, but he grew ever paler and more troubled.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter illowp60" id="chapter_xvi">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/chapter_xvi.jpg" alt="(Ornament)" />
+</div>
+
+<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="XVI"></a>XVI</h2>
+<p class="center noindent fs120 bold">Little Marie</p>
+
+<p class="drop-capy p2">At length, on Sunday morning, when mass was over, his mother-in-law
+asked Germain what encouragement he had had from his sweetheart since
+the conversation in the orchard.</p>
+
+<p>“Why, none at all,” answered he; “I haven’t spoken to her.”</p>
+
+<p>“How can you expect to win her if you don’t speak to her?”</p>
+
+<p>“I have spoken to her but once,” replied Germain. “That was when we were
+together at Fourche, and since then I haven’t said a single word. Her
+refusal gave me so much pain that I had rather not hear her begin again
+to tell me that she doesn’t love me.”</p>
+
+<p>“But, my son, you must speak to her now; your father gives his approval.
+So make up your mind. I tell you to do it, and, if need be, I shall
+order you to do it, for you can’t rest in this uncertainty.”</p>
+
+<p>Germain obeyed. He reached Mother Guillette’s house, hanging his
+head with a hopeless air. Little Marie sat alone before the hearth so
+thoughtful that she did not hear Germain’s step. When she saw him before
+her, she started from her chair in surprise and grew very red.</p>
+
+<p>“Little Marie,” said he, sitting down near her, “I come to trouble you
+and to give you pain. I know it very well, but the man and his wife at
+home [it was thus after the peasant fashion that he designated the heads
+of the house] wish me to speak to you, and beg you to marry me. You
+don’t care for me. I am prepared for it.”</p>
+
+<p>“Germain,” answered little Marie, “are you sure that you love me?”</p>
+
+<p>“It pains you, I know, but it isn’t my fault. If you could change your
+mind, I should be so very happy, and certain it is that I don’t deserve
+it. Look at me, Marie; am I very terrible?”</p>
+
+<p>“No, Germain,” she answered, with a smile, “you are better looking than
+I.”</p>
+
+<p>“Don’t make fun of me; look at me charitably; as yet, I have never lost
+a single hair nor a single tooth. My eyes tell you plainly how much I
+love you. Look straight into my eyes. It is written there, and every
+girl knows how to read that writing.”</p>
+
+<p>Marie looked into Germain’s eyes with playful boldness; then of a sudden
+she turned away her head and trembled.</p>
+
+<p>“Good God,” exclaimed Germain, “I make you afraid; you look at me as
+though I were the farmer of Ormeaux. Don’t be afraid of me, please
+don’t; that hurts me too much. I shall not say any bad words to you, I
+shall not kiss you if you will not have me, and when you wish me to go
+away, you have only to show me the door. Must I go in order to stop your
+trembling?”</p>
+
+<p>Marie held out her hand toward the husbandman, but without turning her
+head, which was bent on the fireplace, and without saying a word.</p>
+
+<p>“I understand,” said Germain. “You pity me, for you are kind; you are
+sorry to make me unhappy; but you can’t love me.”</p>
+
+<p>“Why do you say these things to me, Germain?” answered little Marie,
+after a pause. “Do you wish to make me cry?”</p>
+
+<p>“Poor little girl, you have a kind heart, I know; but you don’t love me,
+and you are hiding your face for fear of letting me see your dislike and
+your repugnance. And I? I dare not even clasp your hand! In the forest,
+when my boy was asleep and you were sleeping too, I almost kissed you
+very gently. But I would have died of shame rather than ask it of you,
+and that night I suffered as a man burning over a slow fire. Since
+that time I have dreamed of you every night. Ah! how I have kissed you,
+Marie! Yet during all that time you have slept without a dream. And now,
+do you know what I think? I think that were you to turn and look at me
+with the eyes I have for you, and were you to move your face close to
+mine, I believe I should fall dead for joy. And you, you think that if
+such a thing were to happen, you would die of anger and shame!”</p>
+
+<p>Germain spoke as in a dream, not hearing the words he said. Little Marie
+was trembling all the time, but he was shaking yet more and did not
+notice it. Of a sudden, she turned. Her eyes were filled with tears, and
+she looked at him reproachfully. The poor husbandman thought that this
+was the last blow, and without waiting for his sentence, he rose to go,
+but the girl stopped him, and throwing both her arms about him, she hid
+her face in his breast.</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, Germain,” she sobbed, “didn’t you feel that I loved you?”</p>
+
+<p>Then Germain had gone mad, if his son, who came galloping into the
+cottage on a stick, with his little sister on the crupper, scourging the
+imaginary steed with a willow branch, had not brought him to his senses.
+He lifted the boy and placed him in the girl’s arms.</p>
+
+<p>“See,” said he, “by loving me, you have made more than one person
+happy.”</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter illowp60" id="chapter_ia">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/chapter_ia.jpg" alt="(Ornament)" />
+</div>
+
+<p class="fs175 center noindent p2 p3bot">APPENDIX</p>
+
+<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="Ia"></a>I</h2>
+<p class="center noindent fs120 bold">A Country Wedding</p>
+
+<p class="drop-capy p2">Here ends the history of Germain’s marriage as he told it to me himself,
+good husbandman that he is. I ask your forgiveness, kind reader, that I
+know not how to translate it better; for it is a real translation that
+is needed by this old-fashioned and artless language of the peasants
+of the country “that I sing,” as they used to say. These people speak
+French that is too true for us, and since Rabelais and Montaigne, the
+advance of the language has lost for us many of its old riches. Thus
+it is with every advance, and we must make the best of it. Yet it is
+a pleasure still to hear those picturesque idioms used in the old
+districts in the center of France; all the more because it is the
+genuine expression of the laughing, quiet, and delightfully talkative
+character of the people who make use of it. Touraine has preserved
+a certain precious number of patriarchal phrases. But Touraine was
+civilized greatly during the Renaissance, and since its decline she
+is filled with fine houses and highroads, with foreigners and traffic.
+Berry remained as she was, and I think that after Brittany and a few
+provinces in the far south of France, it is the best preserved district
+to be found at the present day. Some of the costumes are so strange and
+so curious that I hope to amuse you a few minutes more, kind reader,
+if you will allow me to describe to you in detail a country
+wedding—Germain’s, for example—at which I had the pleasure of
+assisting several years ago.</p>
+
+<p>For, alas! everything passes. During my life alone, more change has
+taken place in the ideas and in the customs of my village than had
+been seen in the centuries before the Revolution. Already half the
+ceremonies, Celtic, Pagan, or of the Middle Ages, that in my childhood I
+have seen in their full vigor, have disappeared. In a year or two more,
+perhaps, the railroads will lay their level tracks across our deep
+valleys, and will carry away, with the swiftness of lightning, all our
+old traditions and our wonderful legends.</p>
+
+<p>It was in winter about the carnival season, the time of year when, in
+our country, it is fitting and proper to have weddings. In summer the
+time can hardly be spared, and the work of the farm cannot suffer three
+days’ delay, not to speak of the additional days impaired to a greater
+or to a less degree by the moral and physical drunkenness which
+follows a gala-day. I was seated beneath the great mantelpiece of the
+old-fashioned kitchen fireplace when shots of pistols, barking of dogs,
+and the piercing notes of the bagpipe told me that the bridal pair were
+approaching. Very soon Father and Mother Maurice, Germain, and little
+Marie, followed by Jacques and his wife, the closer relatives, and the
+godfathers and godmothers of the bride and groom, all made their entry
+into the yard.</p>
+
+<p>Little Marie had not yet received her wedding-gifts,—favors, as they
+call them,—and was dressed in the best of her simple clothes, a dress
+of dark, heavy cloth, a white fichu with great spots of brilliant color,
+an apron of carnation,—an Indian red much in vogue at the time, but
+despised nowadays,—a cap of very white muslin after that pattern,
+happily still preserved, which calls to mind the head-dress of Anne
+Boleyn and of Agnes Sorrel. She was fresh and laughing, but not at
+all vain, though she had good reason to be so. Beside her was Germain,
+serious and tender, like young Jacob greeting Rebecca at the wells of
+Laban. Another girl would have assumed an important air and struck an
+attitude of triumph, for in every rank it is something to be married
+for a fair face alone. Yet the girl’s eyes were moist and shone with
+tenderness. It was plain that she was deep in love and had no time to
+think of the opinions of others. Her little air of determination was not
+absent, but everything about her denoted frankness and good-will. There
+was nothing impertinent in her success, nothing selfish in her sense
+of power. Never have I seen so lovely a bride, when she answered with
+frankness her young friends who asked if she were happy:</p>
+
+<p>“Surely I have nothing to complain of the good Lord.”</p>
+
+<p>Father Maurice was spokesman. He came forward to pay his compliments,
+and give the customary invitations. First he fastened to the mantelpiece
+a branch of laurel decked out with ribbons; this is known as the
+<i>writ</i>—that is to say, the letter of announcement. Next he gave
+to every guest a tiny cross made of a bit of blue ribbon sewn to a
+transverse bit of pink ribbon—pink for the bride, blue for the groom.
+The guests of both sexes were expected to keep this badge to adorn their
+caps or their button-holes on the wedding-day. This is the letter of
+invitation, the admission ticket.</p>
+
+<p>Then Father Maurice paid his congratulations. He invited the head of the
+house and all his <i>company</i>,—that is to say, all his children, all his
+friends, and all his servants,—to the benediction, <i>to the feast, to
+the sports, to the dance, and to everything that follows</i>. He did not
+fail to say, “I have come <i>to do you the honor of inviting you</i>”; a very
+right manner of speech, even though it appears to us to convey the wrong
+meaning, for it expresses the idea of doing honor to those who seem
+worthy of it.</p>
+
+<p>Despite the generosity of the invitation carried from house to house
+throughout the parish, politeness, which is very cautious amongst
+peasants, demands that only two persons from each family take advantage
+of it—one of the heads of the house, and one from the number of their
+children.</p>
+
+<p>After the invitations were made, the betrothed couple and their families
+took dinner together at the farm.</p>
+
+<p>Little Marie kept her three sheep on the common, and Germain tilled the
+soil as though nothing had happened.</p>
+
+<p>About two in the afternoon before the day set for the wedding, the music
+came. The music means the players of the bagpipe and hurdy-gurdy,
+their instruments decorated with long streaming ribbons, playing an
+appropriate march to a measure which would have been rather slow for
+feet foreign to the soil, but admirably adapted to the heavy ground and
+hilly roads of the country.</p>
+
+<p>Pistol-shots, fired by the young people and the children, announced
+the beginning of the wedding ceremonies. Little by little the guests
+assembled, and danced on the grass-plot before the house in order to
+enter into the spirit of the occasion. When evening was come they began
+strange preparations; they divided into two bands, and when night had
+settled down they proceeded to the ceremony of the <i>favors</i>.</p>
+
+<p>All this passed at the dwelling of the bride, Mother Guillette’s
+cottage. Mother Guillette took with her her daughter, a dozen pretty
+shepherdesses, friends and relatives of her daughter, two or three
+respectable housewives, talkative neighbors, quick of wit and strict
+guardians of ancient customs. Next she chose a dozen stout fellows,
+her relatives and friends; and last of all the parish hemp-dresser, a
+garrulous old man, and as good a talker as ever there was.</p>
+
+<p>The part which, in Brittany, is played by the bazvalon, the village
+tailor, is taken in our part of the country by the hemp-dresser and the
+wool-carder, two professions which are unusually combined in one. He
+is present at all ceremonies, sad or gay, for he is very learned and
+a fluent talker, and on these occasions he must always figure as
+spokesman, in order to fulfil with exactitude certain formalities used
+from time immemorial. Traveling occupations, which bring a man into the
+midst of other families, without allowing him to shut himself up within
+his own, are well fitted to make him talker, wit, storyteller, and
+singer.</p>
+
+<p>The hemp-dresser is peculiarly skeptical. He and another village
+functionary, of whom we have spoken before, the grave-digger, are always
+the daring spirits of the neighborhood. They have talked so much about
+ghosts, and they know so well all the tricks of which these malicious
+spirits are capable, that they fear them scarcely at all. It is
+especially at night that all of them—grave-diggers, hemp-dressers, and
+ghosts—do their work. It is also at night when the hemp-dresser tells
+his melancholy stories. Permit me to make a digression.</p>
+
+<p>When the hemp has reached the right stage, that is to say, when it has
+been steeped sufficiently in running water, and half dried on the bank,
+it is brought into the yard and arranged in little upright sheaves,
+which, with their stalks divided at the base, and their heads bound in
+balls, bear in the dusk some small resemblance to a long procession
+of little white phantoms, standing on their slender legs, and moving
+noiselessly along the wall.</p>
+
+<p>It is at the end of September, when the nights are still warm, that they
+begin to beat it by the pale light of the moon. By day the hemp has been
+heated in the oven; at night they take it out to beat it while it is
+still hot. For this they use a kind of horse surmounted by a wooden
+lever which falls into grooves and breaks the plant without cutting it.
+It is then that you hear in the night that sudden, sharp noise of three
+blows in quick succession. Then there is silence; it is the movement of
+the arm drawing out the handful of hemp to break it in a fresh spot. The
+three blows begin again; the other arm works the lever, and thus it goes
+on until the moon is hidden by the early streaks of dawn. As the work
+continues but a few days in the year, the dogs are not accustomed to it,
+and yelp their plaintive howls toward every point of the horizon.</p>
+
+<p>It is the time of unwonted and mysterious sounds in the country. The
+migrating cranes fly so high that by day they are scarcely visible. By
+night they are only heard, and their hoarse wailing voices, lost in the
+clouds, sound like the parting cry of souls in torment, striving to find
+the road to heaven, yet forced by an unconquerable fate to wander near
+the earth about the haunts of men; for these errant birds have strange
+uncertainties, and many a mysterious anxiety in the course of their airy
+flight. Sometimes they lose the wind when the capricious gusts battle,
+or come and go in the upper regions. When this confusion comes by day,
+you can see the leader of the file fluttering aimlessly in the air, then
+turn about and take his place at the tail of the triangular phalanx,
+while a skilful manœuver of his companions forms them soon in good
+order behind him. Often, after vain efforts, the exhausted leader
+relinquishes the guidance of the caravan; another comes forward, tries
+in his turn, and yields his place to a third, who finds the breeze, and
+continues the march in triumph. But what cries, what reproaches, what
+protests, what wild curses or anxious questionings are exchanged in an
+unknown tongue amongst these winged pilgrims!</p>
+
+<p>Sometimes, in the resonant night, you can hear these sinister noises
+whirling for a long time above the housetops, and as you can see
+nothing, you feel, despite your efforts, a kind of dread and kindred
+discomfort, until the sobbing multitude is lost in boundless space.</p>
+
+<p>There are other noises too which belong to this time of year, and which
+sound usually in the orchards. Gathering the fruit is not yet over, and
+the thousand unaccustomed cracklings make the tree seem alive. A branch
+groans as it bends beneath a burden which has reached, of a sudden,
+the last stage of growth; or perhaps an apple breaks from the twig, and
+falls on the damp earth at your feet with a dull sound. Then you hear
+rush by, brushing the branches and the grass, a creature you cannot
+see; it is the peasant’s dog, that prowling and uneasy rover, at once
+impudent and cowardly, always wandering, never sleeping, ever seeking
+you know not what, spying upon you, hiding in the brush, and taking
+flight at the sound of a falling apple, which he thinks a stone that you
+are throwing at him.</p>
+
+<p>It is during those nights, nights misty and gray, that the hemp-dresser
+tells his weird stories of will-o’-the-wisps and milk-white hares, of
+souls in torment and wizards changed to wolves, of witches’ vigils at
+the cross-roads, and screech-owls, prophetesses of the graveyard. I
+remember passing the early hours of such a night while the hemp-dressing
+was going on, and the pitiless strokes, interrupting the dresser’s story
+at its most awful place, sent icy shivers through our veins. And often
+too the good man continued his story as he worked, and four or five
+words were lost, terrible words, no doubt, which we dared not make him
+repeat, and whose omission added a mystery yet more fearful to the
+dark mysteries of the story which had gone before. It was in vain the
+servants warned us that it was too late to stay without doors, and that
+bedtime had sounded for us long since; they too were dying to hear more;
+and then with what terror we crossed the hamlet on our way home! How
+deep did the church porch appear to us, and how thick and black the
+shadows of the old trees! The graveyard we dared not see; we shut our
+eyes tight as we passed it.</p>
+
+<p>But no more than the sacristan is the hemp-dresser gifted solely
+with the desire of frightening; he loves to make people laugh; he is
+sarcastic and sentimental at need, when love and marriage are to be
+sung. It is he who collects and keeps stored in his memory the oldest
+songs, and who transmits them to posterity. And so it is he who acts at
+weddings the part we shall see him play at the presentation of little
+Marie’s favors.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter illowp60" id="chapter_iia">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/chapter_iia.jpg" alt="(Ornament)" />
+</div>
+
+<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="IIa"></a>II</h2>
+<p class="center noindent fs120 bold">The Wedding Favors</p>
+
+<p class="drop-capy p2">When all the guests were met together in the house, the doors and
+windows were closed with the utmost care; even the garret window was
+barricaded; boards and benches, logs and tables were placed behind every
+entrance, just as if the inhabitants were making ready to sustain a
+siege; and within these fortifications solemn stillness prevailed until
+at a distance were heard songs and laughter and the sounds of rustic
+music. It was the band of the bridegroom, Germain at the head, followed
+by his most trusty companions and by the grave-digger, relatives,
+friends, and servants, who formed a compact and merry train. Meanwhile,
+as they came nearer the house they slackened their pace, held a council
+of war, and became silent. The girls, shut up in the house, had arranged
+little loop-holes at the windows by which they could see the enemy
+approach and deploy in battle array. A fine, cold rain was falling,
+which added zest to the situation, while a great fire blazed on the
+hearth within. Marie wished to cut short the inevitable slowness of this
+well-ordered siege; she had no desire to see her lover catch cold,
+but not being in authority she had to take an ostensible share in the
+mischievous cruelty of her companions.</p>
+
+<p>When the two armies met, a discharge of firearms on the part of the
+besiegers set all the dogs in the neighborhood to barking. Those within
+the house dashed at the door with loud yelps, thinking that the attack
+was in earnest, and the children, little reassured by the efforts of
+their mothers, began to weep and to tremble. The whole scene was played
+so well that a stranger would have been deceived, and would have made
+his preparations to fight a band of brigands. Then the grave-digger,
+bard and orator of the groom, took his stand before the door, and with
+a rueful voice, exchanged the following dialogue with the hemp-dresser,
+who was stationed above the same door:</p>
+
+<p><i>The Grave-digger</i>: “Ah, my good people, my fellow-townsmen, for the
+love of Heaven, open the door.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: “Who are you, and what right have you to call us
+your dear fellow-townsmen? We don’t know you.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Grave-digger</i>: “We are worthy folk in great distress. Don’t be
+afraid of us, my friends. Extend us your hospitality. Sleet is falling;
+our poor feet are frozen, and our journey home has been so long that our
+sabots are split.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: “If your sabots are split, you can look on
+the ground; you will find very soon a sprig of willow to make some
+<i>arcelets</i> [small curved blades of iron which are fastened on split
+sabots to hold them together].”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Grave-digger</i>: “Willow <i>arcelets</i> are scarcely strong enough. You
+are making fun of us, good people, and you would do better to open your
+doors. We can see a splendid fire blazing in your dwelling. The spit
+must be turning, and we can make merry with you, heart and belly. So
+open your doors to poor pilgrims who will die on the threshold if you
+are not merciful.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: “Ah ha! so you are pilgrims? You never told us that.
+And what pilgrimage do you come from, may I ask?”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Grave-digger</i>: “We shall tell you that when you open the door, for
+we come from so far that you would never believe it.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: “Open the door to you? I rather think not. We can’t
+trust you. Tell us, is it from Saint Sylvain of Pouligny that you come?”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Grave-digger</i>: “We have been at Saint Sylvain of Pouligny, but we
+have been farther still.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: “Then you have been as far as Saint Solange?”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Grave-digger</i>: “At Saint Solange we have been, sure enough, but we
+have been farther yet.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: “You are lying. You have never been as far as Saint
+Solange.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Grave-digger</i>: “We have been farther, for now we are come from
+Saint Jacques of Compostelle.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: “What absurdity are you telling us? We don’t know
+that parish. We can easily see that you are bad people, brigands,
+nobodies, and liars. Go away with your nonsense. We are on our guard.
+You can’t come in.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Grave-digger</i>: “Ah, my poor fellow, take pity on us. We are not
+pilgrims, as you have guessed, but we are unlucky poachers pursued by
+the keepers. Even the police are after us, and if you don’t hide us in
+your hay-loft, we shall be taken and led off to prison.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: “And who will prove you are what you say you
+are, this time? For you have told us one lie already that you can’t
+maintain.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Grave-digger</i>: “If you will let us in, we shall show you a pretty
+piece of game we have killed.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: “Show it right away, for we have our suspicions.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Grave-digger</i>: “All right, open the door or a window to let us pass
+the creature in.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: “Oh, no, not quite so foolish. I am looking at you
+through a little chink, and I can see neither hunters nor game amongst
+you.”</p>
+
+<p>Here an ox-driver, a thick-set fellow of herculean strength, detached
+himself from a group where he had stood unperceived, and raised toward
+the window a plucked goose, spitted on a strong iron bar decorated with
+tufts of straw and ribbons.</p>
+
+<p>“Ho, ho!” cried the hemp-dresser, after cautiously extending an arm to
+feel the roast. “That isn’t a quail nor a partridge; it isn’t a hare
+nor a rabbit; it’s something like a goose or a turkey. Upon my word,
+you’re clever hunters, and that game didn’t make you run very far.
+Move on, you rogues; we know all your lies, and you had best go home and
+cook your supper. You are not going to eat ours.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Grave-digger</i>: “O Heavens, where can we go to cook our game? It is
+very little for so many as we, and, besides, we have neither place nor
+fire. At this time every door is closed, and every soul asleep. You are
+the only people who are celebrating a wedding at home, and you must be
+hardhearted indeed to let us freeze outside. Once again, good people,
+open the door; we shall not cost you anything. You can see that we bring
+our own meat; only a little room at your hearth, a little blaze to cook
+with, and we shall go on our way rejoicing.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: “Do you suppose that we have too much room here, and
+that wood is bought for nothing?”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Grave-digger</i>: “We have here a small bundle of hay to make the
+fire. We shall be satisfied with that; only grant us leave to place the
+spit across your fireplace.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: “That will never do. We are disgusted, and don’t
+pity you at all. It is my opinion that you are drunk, that you need
+nothing, and that you only wish to come in and steal away our fire and
+our daughters.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Grave-digger</i>: “Since you won’t listen to reason, we shall make our
+way in by force.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: “Try, if you want; we are shut in well enough to
+have no fear of you, and since you are impudent fellows, we shall not
+answer you again.”</p>
+
+<p>Thereupon the hemp-dresser shut the garret window with a bang, and came
+down into the room below by a step-ladder. Then he took the bride by
+the hand, the young people of both sexes followed, and they all began to
+sing and chatter merrily, while the matrons sang in piercing voices, and
+shrieked with laughter in derision and bravado at those without who were
+attempting an attack.</p>
+
+<p>The besiegers, on their side, made a great hubbub. They discharged their
+pistols at the doors, made the dogs growl, whacked the walls, shook
+the blinds, and uttered frightful shrieks. In short, there was such a
+pandemonium that nobody could hear, and such a cloud of dust that nobody
+could see.</p>
+
+<p>And yet this attack was all a sham. The time had not come for breaking
+through the etiquette. If, in prowling about, anybody were to find an
+unguarded aperture, or any opening whatsoever, he might try to slip in
+unobserved, and then, if the carrier of the spit succeeded in placing
+his roast before the fire, and thus prove the capture of the hearth, the
+comedy was over and the bridegroom had conquered.</p>
+
+<p>The entrances of the house, however, were not numerous enough for any to
+be neglected in the customary precautions, and nobody might use violence
+before the moment fixed for the struggle.</p>
+
+<p>When they were weary of dancing and screams, the hemp-dresser began
+to think of capitulation. He went up to his window, opened it with
+precaution, and greeted the baffled assailants with a burst of laughter.</p>
+
+<p>“Well, my boys,” said he, “you look very sheep-faced. You thought there
+was nothing easier than to come in, and you see that our defense is
+good. But we are beginning to have pity on you, if you will submit and
+accept our conditions.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Grave-digger</i>: “Speak, good people. Tell us what we must do to
+approach your hearth.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: “You must sing, my friends; but sing a song we don’t
+know,—one that we can’t answer by a better.”</p>
+
+<p>“That’s not hard to do,” answered the grave-digger, and he thundered in
+a powerful voice:</p>
+
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>“‘Six months ago, ’twas in the spring....’”</p>
+</div>
+
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>“‘I wandered through the sprouting grass,’”</p>
+</div>
+
+
+<p class="noindent">answered the hemp-dresser
+in a slightly hoarse but terrible voice. “You must be jesting, my poor
+friends, singing us such time-worn songs. You see very well that we can
+stop you at the first word.”</p>
+
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>“‘She was a prince’s daughter....’”</p>
+</div>
+
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>“‘Right gladly would she wed,’”</p>
+</div>
+
+
+<p class="noindent">answered the hemp-dresser.
+“Come, move on to the next; we know that a little too well.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Grave-digger</i>: “How do you like this one?”—</p>
+
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>“‘As I was journeying home from Nantes.’”</p>
+</div>
+
+
+<p><i>The Hemp-dresser</i>:</p>
+
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>“‘Weary, oh, weary, was I, was I.’”</p>
+</div>
+
+
+<p>“That dates from my grandmother’s time. Let’s have another.”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Grave-digger</i>:</p>
+
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>“‘One day I went a-walking....’”</p>
+</div>
+
+
+<p><i>The Hemp-dresser</i>:</p>
+
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>“‘Along a lovely wood!’”</p>
+</div>
+
+
+<p>“That one is too stupid! Our little children wouldn’t take the trouble
+to answer you. What! Are these all you know?”</p>
+
+<p><i>The Grave-digger</i>: “Oh, we shall sing you so many that you will never
+be able to hear them all.”</p>
+
+<p>In this way a full hour passed. As the two antagonists were champions
+of the country round in the matter of songs, and as their store seemed
+inexhaustible, the contest might last all night with ease, all the
+more because the hemp-dresser, with a touch of malice, allowed several
+ballads of ten, twenty, or thirty couplets to be sung through, feigning
+by his silence to admit his defeat. Then the bridegroom’s camp rejoiced
+and sang aloud in chorus, and thought that this time the foe was
+worsted; but at the first line of the last couplet, they heard the
+hoarse croaking of the old hemp-dresser bellow forth the second rhyme.
+Then he cried:</p>
+
+<p>“You need not tire yourselves by singing such a long one, my
+children—we know that one to our finger-tips.”</p>
+
+<p>Once or twice, however, the hemp-dresser made a wry face, contracted his
+brow, and turned toward the expectant housewives with a baffled air.
+The grave-digger was singing something so old that his adversary had
+forgotten it, or perhaps had never even heard it; but instantly the good
+gossips chanted the victorious refrain through their noses with voices
+shrill as a sea-mew’s, and the grave-digger, forced to surrender, went
+on to fresh attempts.</p>
+
+<p>It would have taken too long to wait for a decision of the victory. The
+bride’s party declared itself disposed to be merciful, provided that the
+bride were given a present worthy of her.</p>
+
+<p>Then began the song of the favors to a tune solemn as a church chant.</p>
+
+<p>The men without sang together in bass voices:</p>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent0">“‘Open the door, true love,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Open the door;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">I have presents for you, love,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Oh, say not adieu, love.’”</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+<p>To this the women answered from within in falsetto, with mournful
+voices:</p>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent0">“‘My father is sorry, my mother is sad,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">And I am a maiden too kind by far</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">At such an hour my gate to unbar.’”</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+<p>The men took up the first verse as far as the fourth line and modified
+it thus:</p>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent0">“‘And a handkerchief new, love.’”</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+<p>But, on behalf of the bride, the women answered in the same way as at
+first.</p>
+
+<p>For twenty couplets, at least, the men enumerated all the
+wedding-presents, always mentioning something new in the last line: a
+handsome apron, pretty ribbons, a cloth dress, laces, a golden cross,
+and even a hundred pins to complete the modest list of wedding-presents.
+The refusal of the women could not be shaken, but at length the men
+decided to speak of</p>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent0">“A good husband, too, love.”</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+<p>And the women answered, turning toward the bride and singing in unison
+with the men:</p>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent0">“‘Open the door, true love,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Open the door;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Here’s a sweetheart for you, love,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Pray let us enter, too, love.’”</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter illowp60" id="chapter_iiia">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/chapter_iiia.jpg" alt="(Ornament)" />
+</div>
+
+<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="IIIa"></a>III</h2>
+<p class="center noindent fs120 bold">The Wedding</p>
+
+<p class="drop-capy p2">Immediately the hemp-dresser drew back the wooden bolt which barred the
+door within. At this time it was still the only fastening known in most
+of the dwellings of our hamlet. The groom’s band burst into the bride’s
+house, but not without a struggle; for the young men quartered within,
+and even the old hemp-dresser and the gossips, made it their duty to
+defend the hearth. The spit-bearer, upheld by his supporters, had to
+plant the roast before the fireplace. It was a regular battle, although
+people abstained from striking, and there was no anger shown in this
+struggle. But everybody was pushing and shoving so hard, and there was
+so much playful pride in this display of muscular strength, that the
+results might well have been serious, although they did not appear so
+across the laughs and songs. The poor old hemp-dresser, fighting like a
+lion, was pinned to the wall and squeezed by the crowd until his breath
+almost left him. More than one champion was upset and trodden under foot
+involuntarily; more than one hand, jammed against the spit, was covered
+with blood. These games are dangerous, and latterly the accidents have
+been so severe that our peasants have determined to allow the ceremony
+of the favors to fall into disuse; I believe we saw the last at the
+marriage of François Meillant, although there was no real struggle on
+that occasion.</p>
+
+<p>The battle was earnest enough, however, at Germain’s wedding. It was
+a point of honor on one side to invade, on the other to defend, Mother
+Guillette’s hearth. The great spit was twisted like a screw beneath
+the strong fists which fought for it. A pistol-shot set fire to a small
+quantity of hemp arranged in sheaves and laid on a wicker shelf near
+the ceiling. This incident created a diversion, and while some of the
+company crowded about to extinguish the sparks, the grave-digger, who
+had climbed unbeknown into the garret, came down the chimney and seized
+the spit, at the very moment when the ox-driver, who was defending it
+near the hearth, raised it above his head to prevent it from being torn
+away. Some time before the attack, the women had taken the precaution
+to put out the fire lest in the struggle somebody should fall in and get
+burned. The jocular grave-digger, in league with the ox-driver, grasped
+the trophy and tossed it easily across the andirons. It was done! Nobody
+might interfere. The grave-digger sprang to the middle of the room
+and lighted a few wisps of straw, which he placed about the spit under
+pretense of cooking the roast, for the goose was in pieces and the floor
+was strewn with its scattered fragments.</p>
+
+<p>Then there was a great deal of laughter and much boastful dispute.
+Everybody showed the marks of the blows he had received, and as it
+was often a friend’s hand that had struck them, there was no word of
+complaint nor of quarreling. The hemp-dresser, half flattened out, kept
+rubbing the small of his back and saying that, although it made small
+difference to him, he protested against the ruse of his friend, the
+grave-digger, and that if he had not been half dead, the hearth had
+never been captured so easily. The women swept the floor and order
+was restored. The table was covered with jugs of new wine. When the
+contestants had drunk together and taken breath, the bridegroom was led
+to the middle of the chamber, and, armed with a wand, he was obliged to
+submit to a fresh trial.</p>
+
+<p>During the struggle, the bride and three of her companions had been
+hidden by her mother, godmother, and aunts, who had made the four girls
+sit down in a remote corner of the room while they covered them with
+a large white cloth. Three friends of Marie’s height, with caps of a
+uniform size, were chosen, so that when they were enveloped from head to
+toe by the cloth it was impossible to tell them apart.</p>
+
+<p>The bridegroom might not touch them, except with the tip of his staff,
+and then merely to designate which he thought to be his wife. They
+allowed him time enough to make an examination with no other help than
+his eyes afforded, and the women, placed on either side, kept zealous
+watch lest cheating should occur. Should he guess wrong, he might not
+dance with his bride, but only with her he had chosen by mistake.</p>
+
+<p>When Germain stood in front of these ghosts wrapped in the same shroud,
+he feared he should make a wrong choice; and, in truth, that had
+happened to many another, so carefully and conscientiously were the
+precautions made. His heart beat loud. Little Marie did her best to
+breathe hard and shake the cloth a little, but her malicious companions
+followed her example, and kept poking the cloth with their fingers, so
+that there were as many mysterious signals as there were girls beneath
+the canopy. The square head-dresses upheld the cloth so evenly that it
+was impossible to discern the contour of a brow outlined by its folds.</p>
+
+<p>After ten minutes’ hesitation, Germain shut his eyes, commended his soul
+to God, and stretched out the wand at random. It touched the forehead
+of little Marie, who cast the cloth from her, and shouted with triumph.
+Then it was his right to kiss her, and lifting her in his strong arms,
+he bore her to the middle of the room, where together they opened the
+dance, which lasted until two in the morning. The company separated to
+meet again at eight. As many people had come from the country round, and
+as there were not beds enough for everybody, each of the village
+maidens took to her bed two or three other girls, while the men spread
+themselves pell-mell on the hay in the barn-loft. You can imagine well
+that they had little sleep, for they did nothing but wrestle and joke,
+and tell foolish stories. Properly, there were three sleepless nights at
+weddings, and these we cannot regret.</p>
+
+<p>At the time appointed for departure, when they had partaken of
+milk-soup, seasoned with a strong dose of pepper to stimulate the
+appetite,—for the wedding-feast gave promise of great bounty,—the
+guests assembled in the farm-yard. Since our parish had been abolished,
+we had to go half a league from home to receive the marriage blessing.
+It was cool and pleasant weather, but the roads were in such wretched
+condition that everybody was on horseback, and each man took a companion
+on his crupper, whether she were young or old. Germain started on the
+gray, and the mare, well-groomed, freshly shod, and decked out
+with ribbons, pranced about and snorted fire from her nostrils. The
+husbandman went to the cottage for his bride in company with his
+brother-in-law, Jacques, who rode the old gray, and carried Mother
+Guillette on the crupper, while Germain returned to the farm-yard in
+triumph, holding his dear little wife before him.</p>
+
+<p>Then the merry cavalcade set out, escorted by the children, who ran
+ahead and fired off their pistols to make the horses jump. Mother
+Maurice was seated in a small cart, with Germain’s three children and
+the fiddlers. They led the march to the sound of their instruments.
+Petit-Pierre was so handsome that his old grandmother was pride itself.
+But the eager child did not stay long at her side. During a moment’s
+halt made on the journey, before passing through a difficult piece of
+road, he slipped away and ran to beg his father to carry him in front on
+the gray.</p>
+
+<p>“No, no,” replied Germain, “that will call forth some disagreeable joke;
+we mustn’t do it.”</p>
+
+<p>“It’s little that I care what the people of Saint Chartier say,” said
+little Marie. “Take him up, Germain, please do; I shall be prouder of
+him than I am of my wedding-gown.”</p>
+
+<p>Germain yielded, and the pretty trio darted into the crowd borne by the
+triumphant gallop of the gray.</p>
+
+<p>And so it was; the people of Saint Chartier, although they were very
+sarcastic, and somewhat disdainful of the neighboring parishes which had
+been annexed to theirs, never thought of laughing when they saw such
+a handsome husband, such a lovely wife, and a child that a king’s wife
+might court. Petit-Pierre was all dressed in light blue cloth, with a
+smart red waistcoat so short that it descended scarcely below his chin.
+The village tailor had fitted his armholes so tight that he could not
+bring his two little hands together. But, oh, how proud he was! He wore
+a round hat, with a black-and-gold cord, and a peacock’s plume which
+stuck out proudly from a tuft of guinea feathers. A bunch of flowers,
+bigger than his head, covered his shoulder, and ribbons fluttered to his
+feet. The hemp-dresser, who was also the barber and hair-dresser of the
+district, had cut his hair evenly, by covering his head with a bowl, and
+clipping off the protruding locks, an infallible method for guiding the
+shears. Thus arrayed, the poor child was less poetic, certainly, than
+with his curls streaming in the wind, and his Saint John Baptist’s
+sheepskin about him; but he knew nothing of this, and everybody admired
+him and said that he had quite the air of a little man. His beauty
+triumphed over everything, for what is there over which the exceeding
+beauty of childhood could not triumph?</p>
+
+<p>His little sister, Solange, had, for the first time in her life, a
+peasant’s cap in place of the calico hood which little girls wear until
+they are two or three years old. And what a cap it was! Longer and
+larger than the poor little thing’s whole body. How beautiful she
+thought it! She dared not even turn her head; so she kept quite still
+and thought the people would take her for the bride.</p>
+
+<p>As for little Sylvain, he was still in long clothes, and, fast asleep on
+his grandmother’s knees, he did not even know what a wedding was.</p>
+
+<p>Germain looked at his children tenderly, and when they reached the town
+hall, he said to his bride:</p>
+
+<p>“Marie, I have come here with a happier heart than I had the day when I
+brought you home from the forest of Chanteloube, thinking that you could
+never love me. I took you in my arms to put you on the ground as I do
+here; but I thought that never again should we be mounted on the good
+gray with the child on our knees. I love you so dearly, I love these
+little creatures so dearly, I am so happy that you love me and that you
+love them, and that my family love you, and I love your mother so well
+and all my friends so well, and everybody else so well to-day, that I
+wish I had three or four hearts to fill all of them; for surely one is
+too small to hold so much love and so much happiness. It almost makes my
+stomach ache.”</p>
+
+<p>There was a crowd at the door of the town hall and another at the church
+to see the pretty bride. Why should we not tell about her dress? it
+became her so well. Her muslin cap, without spot and covered with
+embroidery, had lappets trimmed with lace. At that time peasant women
+never allowed a single lock to be seen, and, although they conceal
+beneath their caps splendid coils of hair tied up with tape to hold the
+coif in place, even to-day it would be thought a scandal and a shame for
+them to show themselves bareheaded to men. Nowadays, however, they allow
+a slender braid to appear over their foreheads, and this improves their
+appearance very much. Yet I regret the classic head-dress of my time;
+its spotless laces next the bare skin gave an effect of pristine purity
+which seemed to me very solemn; and when a face looked beautiful thus it
+was with a beauty of which nothing can express the charm and unaffected
+majesty.</p>
+
+<p>Little Marie wore her cap thus, and her forehead was so white and so
+pure that it defied the whiteness of linen to cast it in the shade.
+Although she had not closed an eye the night before, the morning air
+and, yet more, the joy within of a soul pure as the heaven, and, more
+than all, a small secret flame guarded with the modesty of girlhood,
+caused a bloom to mount to her cheeks delicate as the peach-blossom in
+the first beams of an April sun.</p>
+
+<p>Her white scarf, modestly crossed over her breast, left visible only the
+soft curves of a neck rounded like a turtle-dove’s; her home-made cloth
+gown of myrtle-green outlined her pretty figure, which looked already
+perfect, yet which must still grow and develop, for she was but
+seventeen. She wore an apron of violet silk with the bib our peasant
+women were so foolish as to suppress, which added so much elegance and
+decency to the breast. Nowadays they display their scarfs more proudly,
+but there is no longer in their dress that delicate flower of the purity
+of long ago, which made them look like Holbein’s virgins. They are more
+forward and more profuse in their courtesies. The good old custom used
+to be a kind of staid reserve which made their rare smile deeper and
+more ideal.</p>
+
+<p>During the offertory, after the fashion of the day, Germain placed the
+“thirteen”—that is to say, thirteen pieces of silver—in his bride’s
+hand. He slipped over her finger a silver ring of a form unchanged
+for centuries, but which is replaced for henceforth by the golden
+wedding-ring. As they walked out of church, Marie said in a low voice:</p>
+
+<p>“Is this really the ring I wanted? Is it the one I asked you for,
+Germain?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes,” answered he, “my Catherine wore it on her finger when she died.
+There is but one ring for both my weddings.”</p>
+
+<p>“Thank you, Germain,” said the young woman, in a serious and impressive
+tone. “I shall die with it on, and if I go before you, you must keep it
+for the marriage of your little Solange.”</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter illowp60" id="chapter_iva">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/chapter_iva.jpg" alt="(Ornament)" />
+</div>
+
+<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="IVa"></a>IV</h2>
+<p class="center noindent fs120 bold">The Cabbage</p>
+
+<p class="drop-capy p2">They mounted and returned very quickly to Belair. The feast was
+bountiful, and, mingled with songs and dances, it lasted until
+midnight. For fourteen hours the old people did not leave the table. The
+grave-digger did the cooking, and did it very well. He was celebrated
+for this, and he would leave his fire to come in and dance and sing
+before and after every course. And yet this poor Father Bontemps was
+epileptic. Who would have thought it? He was fresh and strong, and merry
+as a young man. One day we found him in a ditch, struck down by his
+malady at nightfall. We carried him home with us, in a wheelbarrow, and
+we spent all night in caring for him. Three days afterward, he was at a
+wedding, singing like a thrush, jumping like a kid, and bustling about
+after his old fashion. When he left a marriage, he would go to dig a
+grave, and nail up a coffin. Then he would become very grave, and
+though nothing of this appeared in his gay humor, it left a melancholy
+impression which hastened the return of his attacks. His wife was
+paralyzed, and had not stirred from her chair for twenty years. His
+mother is living yet, at a hundred and forty, but he, poor man, so happy
+and good and amusing, was killed last year by falling from his loft
+to the sidewalk. Doubtless he died a victim to a fatal attack of his
+disease, and, as was his habit, had hidden in the hay, so as not to
+frighten and distress his family. In this tragic manner he ended a life
+strange as his disposition—a medley of things sad and mad, awful and
+gay; and, in the midst of all, his heart was ever good and his nature
+kind.</p>
+
+<p>Now we come to the third day of the wedding, the most curious of all,
+which is kept to-day in all its vigor. We shall not speak of the roast
+which they carry to the bridal bed; it is a very silly custom, and hurts
+the self-respect of the bride, while it tends to ruin the modesty of
+the attendant girls. Besides, I believe that it is practised in all the
+provinces, and does not belong peculiarly to our own.</p>
+
+<p>Just as the ceremony of the wedding favors is a symbol that the heart
+and home of the bride are won, that of the cabbage is a symbol of the
+fruitfulness of marriage. When breakfast is over on the day after the
+wedding, this fantastic representation begins. Originally of Gallic
+derivation, it has passed through primitive Christianity, and little by
+little it has become a kind of mystery, or droll morality-play of the
+Middle Ages.</p>
+
+<p>Two boys, the merriest and most intelligent of the company, disappear
+from breakfast, and after costuming themselves, return escorted by dogs,
+children, and pistol-shots. They represent a pair of beggars—husband
+and wife—dressed in rags. The husband is the filthier of the two; it is
+vice which has brought him so low; the wife is unhappy and degraded only
+through the misdeeds of her husband.</p>
+
+<p>They are called the gardener and the gardener’s wife, and they pretend
+it is their duty to guard and care for the sacred cabbage. The husband
+has several names, each with a meaning. Sometimes they call him the
+“scarecrow,” because his head is covered with straw or hemp, and because
+his legs and a portion of his body are surrounded with straw to hide
+his nakedness, ill concealed by his rags. He has also a great belly,
+or hump, constructed of straw or hay underneath his blouse. Then he is
+known as the “ragamuffin,” on account of his covering of rags. Lastly he
+is termed the “infidel,” and this is most significant of all, because by
+his cynicism and his debauchery he is supposed to typify the opposite of
+every Christian virtue.</p>
+
+<p>He comes with his face all smeared with soot and the lees of wine, and
+sometimes made yet more hideous by a grotesque mask. An earthenware cup,
+notched and broken, or an old sabot attached to his girdle by a cord,
+shows that he has come to beg for alms of wine. Nobody refuses him, and
+he pretends to drink; then he pours the wine on the ground by way of
+libation. At every step he falls, rolls in the mud, and feigns to be
+a prey to the most shameful drunkenness. His poor wife runs after him,
+picks him up, calls for help, arranges his hempen locks, which straggle
+forth in unkempt wisps from beneath his filthy hat, sheds tears over her
+husband’s degradation, and pours forth pathetic reproaches.</p>
+
+<p>“Wretched man,” she cries, “see the misery to which your wickedness
+has brought us. I have to spend all my time sewing and working for you,
+mending your clothes. You tear and bedraggle yourself incessantly. You
+have eaten up all my little property; our six children lie on straw, and
+we are living in a stable with the beasts. Here we are forced to beg for
+alms, and, besides, you are so ugly and vile and despicable that very
+soon they will be tossing us bread as if we were dogs. Ah, my poor
+people, take pity on us! Take pity on me! I haven’t deserved my lot,
+and never had woman a more dirty and detestable husband. Help me to
+pick him up, else the wagons will run over him as they run over broken
+bottles, and I shall be a widow, and that will end by killing me with
+grief, though all the world says it would be an excellent riddance
+for me.” Such is the part of the gardener’s wife, and her continued
+lamentations last during the entire play. For it is a genuine
+spontaneous comedy acted on the spur of the moment in the open air,
+along the roads and across the fields, aided by every chance occurrence
+that presents itself. Everybody shares in the acting, people within the
+wedding-party and people without, wayfarers and dwellers in houses, for
+three or four hours of the day, as we shall see. The theme is always the
+same, but the variations are infinite; and it is here that we can see
+the instinct of mimicry, the abundance of droll ideas, the fluency, the
+wit at repartee, and even the natural eloquence of our peasants.</p>
+
+<p>The rôle of gardener’s wife is intrusted commonly to a slender man,
+beardless and fresh of face, who can give a great appearance of truth to
+his personification and plays the burlesque despair naturally enough to
+make people sad and glad at once, as they are in real life. These thin,
+beardless men are not rare among us, and, strangely enough, they are
+sometimes most remarkable for their muscular strength.</p>
+
+<p>When the wife’s misfortunes have been explained, the young men of the
+company try to persuade her to leave her drunken husband and to amuse
+herself with them. They offer her their arms and drag her away. Little
+by little she gives way; her spirits rise, and she begins to run about,
+first with one and then with another, and grows more scandalous in her
+behavior: a fresh “morality”; the ill-conduct of the husband excites and
+aggravates the evil in the wife.</p>
+
+<p>Then the “infidel” wakes from his drunkenness. He looks about for his
+companion, arms himself with a rope and a stick and rushes after her.
+They make him run, they hide, they pass the wife from one to another,
+they try to divert her attention and to deceive her jealous spouse. His
+friends try to get him drunk. At length he catches his unfaithful wife,
+and wishes to beat her. What is truest and most carefully portrayed in
+this play is that the jealous husband never attacks the men who carry
+off his wife. He is very polite and prudent with them, and wishes only
+to take vengeance on the sinning woman, because she is supposed to be
+too feeble to offer resistance.</p>
+
+<p>At the moment, however, when he raises his stick and prepares his cord
+to strike the delinquent, all the men in the party interpose and throw
+themselves between husband and wife.</p>
+
+<p>“Don’t strike her! Never strike your wife,” is the formula repeated to
+satiety during these scenes. They disarm the husband, and force him to
+pardon and to kiss his wife, and soon he pretends to love her better
+than ever. He walks along, his arm linked in hers, singing and dancing
+until, in a new access of drunkenness, he rolls upon the ground,
+and then begin all over again the lamentations of the wife, her
+discouragements, her pretended unfaithfulness, her husband’s jealousy,
+the interference of the neighbors, and the reconciliation. In all
+this there is a simple and even coarse lesson, which, though it savors
+strongly of its Middle-Age origin, does not fail to fix its impression
+if not on the married folk, who are too loving or too sensible to
+have need of it, at least upon the children and the young people. The
+“infidel,” racing after young girls and pretending to wish to kiss them,
+frightens and disgusts them to such a degree that they fly in unaffected
+terror. His dirty face and his great stick, harmless as it is, make
+the children shriek aloud. It is the comedy of customs in their most
+elementary but their most striking state.</p>
+
+<p>When this farce is well under way, people make ready to hunt for the
+cabbage. They bring a stretcher and place upon it the “infidel,” armed
+with a spade, a cord, and a large basket. Four powerful men raise him
+on their shoulders. His wife follows on foot, and after her come
+the “elders” in a body with serious and thoughtful looks; then the
+wedding-march begins by couples to a step tuned to music. Pistol-shots
+begin anew, and dogs bark louder than ever at the sight of the filthy
+“infidel” borne aloft in triumph. The children swing incense in derision
+with sabots fastened at the end of a cord.</p>
+
+<p>But why this ovation to an object so repulsive? They are marching to the
+capture of the sacred cabbage, emblem of the fruitfulness of marriage,
+and it is this drunkard alone who can bear the symbolic plant in his
+hand. Doubtless, there is in it a pre-Christian mystery which recalls
+the Saturnalian feasts or some rout of the Bacchanals. Perhaps this
+“infidel,” who is, at the same time, preeminently a gardener, is
+none other than Priapus himself, god of gardens and of drunkenness, a
+divinity who must have been pure and serious in his origin as is the
+mystery of birth, but who has been degraded bit by bit through license
+of manners and distraction of thought.</p>
+
+<p>However this may be, the triumphal procession arrives at the bride’s
+house, and enters the garden. Then they select the choicest cabbage, and
+this is not done very quickly, for the old people keep consulting and
+disputing interminably, each one pleading for the cabbage he thinks most
+suitable. They put it to vote, and when the choice is made the gardener
+fastens his cord to the stalk, and moves away as far as the size of the
+garden permits. The gardener’s wife takes care that the sacred
+vegetable shall not be hurt in its fall. The wits of the wedding, the
+hemp-dresser, the grave-digger, the carpenter, and the sabot-maker, form
+a ring about the cabbage, for men who do not till the soil, but pass
+their lives in other people’s houses, are thought to be, and are really,
+wittier and more talkative than simple farmhands. One digs, with a
+spade, a ditch deep enough to uproot an oak. Another places on his
+nose a pair of wooden or cardboard spectacles. He fulfils the duties of
+“engineer,” walks up and down, constructs a plan, stares at the workmen
+through his glasses, plays the pedant, cries out that everything will be
+spoiled, has the work stopped and begun afresh as his fancy directs, and
+makes the whole performance as long and ridiculous as he can. This is
+an addition to the formula of an ancient ceremony held in mockery of
+theorists in general, for peasants despise them royally, or from hatred
+of the surveyors who decide boundaries and regulate taxes, or of the
+workmen employed on bridges and causeways, who transform commons into
+highways, and suppress old abuses which the peasants love. Be this as it
+may, this character in the comedy is called the “geometrician,” and
+does his best to make himself unbearable to those who are toiling with
+pickaxe and shovel.</p>
+
+<p>After a quarter of an hour spent in mummery, and difficulties raised in
+order to avoid cutting the roots, and to transplant the cabbage without
+injury, while shovelfuls of dirt are tossed into the faces of the
+onlookers,—so much the worse for him who does not retreat in time,
+for were he bishop or prince he must receive the baptism of earth,—the
+“infidel” pulls the rope, the “infidel’s wife” holds her apron, and the
+cabbage falls majestically amidst the applause of the spectators. Then a
+basket is brought, and the “infidel” pair plant the cabbage therein
+with every care and precaution. They surround it with fresh earth, and
+support it with sticks and strings, such as city florists use for their
+splendid potted camellias; they fix red apples to the points of the
+sticks, and twist sprigs of thyme, sage, and laurel all about them; they
+bedeck the whole with ribbons and streamers; they place the trophy
+upon the stretcher with the “infidel,” whose duty it is to maintain its
+equilibrium and preserve it from harm; and, at length, they move away
+from the garden in good order and in marching step.</p>
+
+<p>But when they are about to pass the gate, and again when they enter the
+yard of the bridegroom’s house, an imaginary obstacle blocks the way.
+The bearers of the burden stagger, utter loud cries, retreat, advance
+once more, and, as though crushed by a resistless force, they pretend
+to sink beneath its weight. While this is going on, the bystanders shout
+loudly, exciting and steadying this human team.</p>
+
+<p>“Slowly, slowly, my child. There, there, courage! Look out! Be patient!
+Lower your head; the door is too low! Close up; it’s too narrow! A little
+more to the left; now to the right; on with you; don’t be afraid; you’re
+almost there.”</p>
+
+<p>Thus it is that in years of plentiful harvest, the ox-cart, loaded to
+overflowing with hay or corn, is too broad or too high to enter the
+barn door. Thus it is that the driver shouts at the strong beasts, to
+restrain them or to urge them on; thus it is that with skill and mighty
+efforts they force this mountain of riches beneath the rustic arch of
+triumph. It is, above all, the last load, called “the cart of sheaves,”
+which requires these precautions, for this is a rural festival, and
+the last sheaf lifted from the last furrow is placed on the top of the
+cart-load ornamented with ribbons and flowers, while the foreheads of
+the oxen and the whip of the driver are decorated also. The triumphant
+and toilsome entry of the cabbage into the house is a symbol of the
+prosperity and fruitfulness it represents.</p>
+
+<p>Safe within the bridegroom’s yard, the cabbage is taken from its
+stretcher and borne to the topmost peak of the house or barn. Whether it
+be a chimney, a gable, or a dove-cote that crowns the roof, the burden
+must, at any risk, be carried to the very highest point of the building.
+The “infidel” accompanies it as far as this, sets it down securely, and
+waters it with a great pitcher of wine, while a salvo of pistol-shots
+and demonstrations of joy from the “infidel’s wife” proclaim its
+inauguration.</p>
+
+<p>Without delay, the same ceremony is repeated all over again. Another
+cabbage is dug from the garden of the husband and is carried with the
+same formalities and laid upon the roof which his wife has deserted to
+follow him. These trophies remain in their places until the wind and the
+rain destroy the baskets and carry away the cabbage. Yet their lives are
+long enough to give some chance of fulfilment to the prophecies which
+the old men and women make with bows and courtesies.</p>
+
+<p>“Beautiful cabbage,” they say, “live and flourish that our young bride
+may have a fine baby before a year is over; for if you die too quickly
+it is a sign of barrenness, and you will stick up there like an ill
+omen.”</p>
+
+<p>The day is already far gone when all these things are accomplished. All
+that remains undone is to take home the godfathers and godmothers of the
+newly married couple. When the so-called parents dwell at a distance,
+they are accompanied by the music and the whole wedding procession as
+far as the limits of the parish; there they dance anew on the highroad,
+and everybody kisses them good-by. The “infidel” and his wife are then
+washed and dressed decently, if the fatigue of their parts has not
+already driven them away to take a nap.</p>
+
+<p>Everybody was still dancing and singing and eating in the Town Hall of
+Belair at midnight on this third day of the wedding when Germain was
+married. The old men at table could not stir, and for good reason. They
+recovered neither their legs nor their wits until dawn on the morrow.
+While they were regaining their dwellings, silently and with uncertain
+steps, Germain, proud and active, went out to hitch his oxen, leaving
+his young wife to slumber until daylight. The lark, caroling as it
+mounted to the skies, seemed to him the voice of his heart returning
+thanks to Providence. The hoar-frost, sparkling on the leafless bushes,
+seemed to him the whiteness of April flowers that comes before the
+budding leaves. Everything in nature was laughing and happy for him.
+Little Pierre had laughed and jumped so much the evening before that he
+did not come to help lead his oxen; but Germain was glad to be alone.
+He fell on his knees in the furrow he was about to plow afresh, and said
+his morning prayer with such a burst of feeling that two tears rolled
+down his cheeks, still moist with sweat.</p>
+
+<p>Afar off he heard the songs of the boys from neighboring villages, who
+were starting on their return home, singing again in their hoarse voices
+the happy tunes of the night before.</p>
+
+
+<p class="center noindent p3">THE END.</p>
+
+
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+
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #21993 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/21993)
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Devil's Pool, by George Sand
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Devil's Pool
+
+Author: George Sand
+
+Illustrator: E. Abot
+
+Translator: Jane Minot Sedgwick And Ellery Sedgwick
+
+Release Date: July 4, 2007 [EBook #21993]
+Last Updated: March 16, 2018
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEVIL'S POOL ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+THE DEVIL'S POOL
+
+By George Sand
+
+
+Translated From The French By Jane Minot Sedgwick And Ellery Sedgwick
+
+
+With An Etching By E. Abot
+
+1901
+
+
+
+
+THE DEVIL'S POOL
+
+
+
+THE AUTHOR TO THE READER
+
+     _A la sueur de ton visaige,
+        Tu gagnerais ta pauvre vie.
+     Après long travail et usaige,
+        Voicy la mort qui te convie._ *
+
+THIS quaint old French verse, written under one of Holbein's pictures,
+is profoundly melancholy. The engraving represents a laborer driving his
+plow through the middle of a field. Beyond him stretches a vast horizon,
+dotted with wretched huts; the sun is sinking behind the hill. It is the
+end of a hard day's work. The peasant is old, bent, and clothed in rags.
+He is urging onward a team of four thin and exhausted horses; the
+plowshare sinks into a stony and ungrateful soil. One being only is
+active and alert in this scene of toil and sorrow. It is a fantastic
+creature. A skeleton armed with a whip, who acts as plowboy to the old
+laborer, and running along through the furrow beside the terrified
+horses, goads them on. This is the specter Death, whom Holbein has
+introduced allegorically into that series of religious and philosophic
+subjects, at once melancholy and grotesque, entitled “The Dance of
+Death.”
+
+   * In toil and sorrow thou shalt eat
+     The bitter bread of poverty.
+     After the burden and the heat,
+     Lo! it is Death who calls for thee.
+
+In this collection, or rather this mighty composition, where Death, who
+plays his part on every page, is the connecting link and predominating
+thought, Holbein has called up kings, popes, lovers, gamesters,
+drunkards, nuns, courtesans, thieves, warriors, monks, Jews, and
+travelers,--all the people of his time and our own; and everywhere the
+specter Death is among them, taunting, threatening, and triumphing. He
+is absent from one picture only, where Lazarus, lying on a dunghill at
+the rich man's door, declares that the specter has no terrors for him;
+probably because he has nothing to lose, and his existence is already a
+life in death.
+
+Is there comfort in this stoical thought of the half-pagan Christianity
+of the Renaissance, and does it satisfy religious souls? The upstart,
+the rogue, the tyrant, the rake, and all those haughty sinners who make
+an ill use of life, and whose steps are dogged by Death, will be surely
+punished; but can the reflection that death is no evil make amends for
+the long hardships of the blind man, the beggar, the madman, and the
+poor peasant? No! An inexorable sadness, an appalling fatality brood
+over the artist's work. It is like a bitter curse, hurled against the
+fate of humanity.
+
+Holbein's faithful delineation of the society in which he lived is,
+indeed, painful satire. His attention was engrossed by crime and
+calamity; but what shall we, who are artists of a later date, portray?
+Shall we look to find the reward of the human beings of to-day in
+the contemplation of death, and shall we invoke it as the penalty of
+unrighteousness and the compensation of suffering?
+
+No, henceforth, our business is not with death, but with life. We
+believe no longer in the nothingness of the grave, nor in safety bought
+with the price of a forced renunciation; life must be enjoyed in order
+to be fruitful. Lazarus must leave his dunghill, so that the poor need
+no longer exult in the death of the rich. All must be made happy, that
+the good fortune of a few may not be a crime and a curse. As the laborer
+sows his wheat, he must know that he is helping forward the work of
+life, instead of rejoicing that Death walks at his side. We may
+no longer consider death as the chastisement of prosperity or the
+consolation of distress, for God has decreed it neither as the
+punishment nor the compensation of life. Life has been blessed by Him,
+and it is no longer permissible for us to leave the grave as the only
+refuge for those whom we are unwilling to make happy.
+
+There are some artists of our own day, who, after a serious survey of
+their surroundings, take pleasure in painting misery, the sordidness of
+poverty, and the dunghill of Lazarus. This may belong to the domain of
+art and philosophy; but by depicting poverty as so hideous, so degraded,
+and sometimes so vicious and criminal, do they gain their end, and is
+that end as salutary as they would wish? We dare not pronounce judgment.
+They may answer that they terrify the unjust rich man by pointing out to
+him the yawning pit that lies beneath the frail covering of wealth; just
+as in the time of the Dance of Death, they showed him his gaping grave,
+and Death standing ready to fold him in an impure embrace. Now, they
+show him the thief breaking open his doors, and the murderer stealthily
+watching his sleep. We confess we cannot understand how we can reconcile
+him to the human nature he despises, or make him sensible of the
+sufferings of the poor wretch whom he dreads, by showing him this
+wretch in the guise of the escaped convict or the nocturnal burglar. The
+hideous phantom Death, under the repulsive aspect in which he has been
+represented by Holbein and his predecessors, gnashing his teeth and
+playing the fiddle, has been powerless to convert the wicked and console
+their victims. And does not our literature employ the same means as the
+artists of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance?
+
+The revelers of Holbein fill their glasses in a frenzy to dispel the
+idea of Death, who is their cup-bearer, though they do not see him. The
+unjust rich of our own day demand cannon and barricades to drive out
+the idea of an insurrection of the people which Art shows them as slowly
+working in the dark, getting ready to burst upon the State. The Church
+of the Middle Ages met the terrors of the great of the earth with the
+sale of indulgences. The government of to-day soothes the uneasiness of
+the rich by exacting from them large sums for the support of policemen,
+jailors, bayonets, and prisons.
+
+Albert Durer, Michael Angelo, Holbein, Callot, and Goya have made
+powerful satires on the evils of their times and countries, and their
+immortal works are historical documents of unquestionable value. We
+shall not refuse to artists the right to probe the wounds of society
+and lay them bare to our eyes; but is the only function of art still
+to threaten and appall? In the literature of the mysteries of iniquity,
+which talent and imagination have brought into fashion, we prefer the
+sweet and gentle characters, which can attempt and effect conversions,
+to the melodramatic villains, who inspire terror; for terror never cures
+selfishness, but increases it.
+
+We believe that the mission of art is a mission of sentiment and love,
+that the novel of to-day should take the place of the parable and the
+fable of early times, and that the artist has a larger and more poetic
+task than that of suggesting certain prudential and conciliatory
+measures for the purpose of diminishing the fright caused by his
+pictures. His aim should be to render attractive the objects he has at
+heart, and, if necessary, I have no objection to his embellishing them
+a little. Art is not the study of positive reality, but the search for
+ideal truth, and the “Vicar of Wakefield” was a more useful and healthy
+book than the “Paysan Perverti,” or the “Liaisons Dangereuses.”
+
+Forgive these reflections of mine, kind reader, and let them stand as
+a preface, for there will be no other to the little story I am going
+to relate to you. My tale is to be so short and so simple, that I felt
+obliged to make you my apologies for it beforehand, by telling you what
+I think of the literature of terror.
+
+I have allowed myself to be drawn into this digression for the sake of a
+laborer; and it is the story of a laborer which I have been meaning to
+tell you, and which I shall now tell you at once.
+
+
+
+
+I -- The Tillage of the Soil
+
+I HAD just been looking long and sadly at Holbein's plowman, and was
+walking through the fields, musing on rustic life and the destiny of
+the husbandman. It is certainly tragic for him to spend his days and his
+strength delving in the jealous earth, that so reluctantly yields up her
+rich treasures when a morsel of coarse black bread, at the end of the
+day's work, is the sole reward and profit to be reaped from such arduous
+toil. The wealth of the soil, the harvests, the fruits, the splendid
+cattle that grow sleek and fat in the luxuriant grass, are the property
+of the few, and but instruments of the drudgery and slavery of the many.
+The man of leisure seldom loves, for their own sake, the fields and
+meadows, the landscape, or the noble animals which are to be converted
+into gold for his use. He comes to the country for his health or for
+change of air, but goes back to town to spend the fruit of his vassal's
+labor.
+
+On the other hand, the peasant is too abject, too wretched, and too
+fearful of the future to enjoy the beauty of the country and the charms
+of pastoral life. To him, also, the yellow harvest-fields, the rich
+meadows, the fine cattle represent bags of gold; but he knows that
+only an infinitesimal part of their contents, insufficient for his daily
+needs, will ever fall to his share. Yet year by year he must fill those
+accursed bags, to please his master and buy the right of living on his
+land in sordid wretchedness. Yet nature is eternally young, beautiful,
+and generous. She pours forth poetry and beauty on all creatures and
+all plants that are allowed free development.
+
+She owns the secret of happiness, of which no one has ever robbed her.
+The happiest of men would be he who, knowing the full meaning of his
+labor, should, while working with his hands, find his happiness and his
+freedom in the exercise of his intelligence, and, having his heart in
+unison with his brain, should at once understand his own work and love
+that of God, The artist has such delights as these in contemplating and
+reproducing the beauties of nature; but if his heart be true and tender,
+his pleasure is disturbed when he sees the miseries of the men who
+people this paradise of earth. True happiness will be theirs when mind,
+heart, and hand shall work in concert in the sight of Heaven, and there
+shall be a sacred harmony between God's goodness and the joys of his
+creatures. Then, instead of the pitiable and frightful figure of Death
+stalking, whip in hand, across the fields, the painter of allegories
+may place beside the peasant a radiant angel, sowing the blessed grain
+broadcast in the smoking furrow. The dream of a serene, free, poetic,
+laborious, and simple life for the tiller of the soil is not so
+impossible that we should banish it as a chimera. The sweet, sad words
+of Virgil: “Oh, happy the peasants of the field, if they knew their own
+blessings!” is a regret, but, like all regrets, it is also a prophecy.
+The day will come when the laborer too may be an artist, and may at
+least feel what is beautiful, if he cannot express it,--a matter of far
+less importance. Do not we know that this mysterious poetic intuition
+is already his, in the form of instinct and vague reverie? Among those
+peasants who possess some of the comforts of life, and whose moral
+and intellectual development is not entirely stifled by extreme
+wretchedness, pure happiness that can be felt and appreciated exists
+in the elementary stage; and, moreover, since poets have already raised
+their voices out of the lap of pain and of weariness, why should we say
+that the labor of the hands excludes the working of the soul? Without
+doubt this exclusion is the common result of excessive toil and of deep
+misery; but let it not be said that when men shall work moderately and
+usefully there will be nothing but bad workers and bad poets. The man
+who draws in noble joy from the poetic feeling is a true poet, though he
+has never written a verse all his life.
+
+My thoughts had flown in this direction, without my perceiving that
+my confidence in the capacity of man for education was strengthened by
+external influences. I was walking along the edge of a field, which some
+peasants were preparing to sow. The space was vast as that in Holbein's
+picture; the landscape, too, was vast and framed in a great sweep of
+green, slightly reddened by the approach of autumn. Here and there in
+the great russet field, slender rivulets of water left in the furrows by
+the late rains sparkled in the sunlight like silver threads. The day was
+clear and mild, and the soil, freshly cleft by the plowshare, sent up
+a light steam. At the other extremity of the field, an old man, whose
+broad shoulders and stern face recalled Holbein's plowman, but whose
+clothes carried no suggestion of poverty, was gravely driving his plow
+of antique shape, drawn by two placid oxen, true patriarchs of the
+meadow, tall and rather thin, with pale yellow coats and long, drooping
+horns. They were those old workers who, through long habit, have grown
+to be _brothers_, as they are called in our country, and who, when one
+loses the other, refuse to work with a new comrade, and pine away with
+grief. People who are unfamiliar with the country call the love of the
+ox for his yoke-fellow a fable. Let them come and see in the corner of
+the stable one of these poor beasts, thin and wasted, restlessly lashing
+his lean flanks with his tail, violently breathing with mingled terror
+and disdain on the food offered him, his eyes always turned toward the
+door, scratching with his hoof the empty place at his side, sniffing the
+yokes and chains which his fellow used to wear, and incessantly calling
+him with melancholy lowings. The ox-herd will say: “There is a pair
+of oxen gone;' this one will work no more, for his brother is dead. We
+ought to fatten him for the market, but he will not eat, and will soon
+starve himself to death.” The old laborer worked slowly, silently, and
+without waste of effort His docile team were in no greater haste than
+he; but, thanks to the undistracted steadiness of his toil and the
+judicious expenditure of his strength, his furrow was as soon plowed as
+that of his son, who was driving, at some distance from him, four less
+vigorous oxen through a more stubborn and stony piece of ground.
+
+My attention was next caught by a fine spectacle, a truly noble subject
+for a painter. At the other end of the field a fine-looking youth was
+driving a magnificent team of four pairs of young oxen, through whose
+somber coats glanced a ruddy, glow-like name. They had the short, curry
+heads that belong to the wild bull, the same large, fierce eyes and
+jerky movements; they worked in an abrupt, nervous way that showed how
+they still rebelled against the yoke and goad, and trembled with anger
+as they obeyed the authority so recently imposed. They were what is
+called “newly yoked” oxen. The man who drove them had to clear a corner
+of the field that had formerly been given up to pasture, and was
+filled with old tree-stumps; and his youth and energy, and his eight
+half-broken animals, hardly sufficed for the Herculean task.
+
+A child of six or seven years old, lovely as an angel, wearing round his
+shoulders, over his blouse, a sheepskin that made him look like a little
+Saint John the Baptist out of a Renaissance picture, was running along
+in the furrow beside the plow, pricking the flanks of the oxen with a
+long, light goad but slightly sharpened. The spirited animals quivered
+under the child's light touch, making their yokes and head-bands creak,
+and shaking the pole violently. Whenever a root stopped the advance
+of the plowshare, the laborer would call every animal by name in his
+powerful voice, trying to calm rather than to excite them; for the oxen,
+irritated by the sudden resistance, bounded, pawed the ground with their
+great cloven hoofs, and would have jumped aside and dragged the plow
+across the fields, if the young man had not kept the first four in order
+with his voice and goad, while the child controlled the four others.
+The little fellow shouted too, but the voice which he tried to make of
+terrible effect, was as sweet as his angelic face. The whole scene was
+beautiful in its grace and strength; the landscape, the man, the child,
+the oxen under the yoke; and in spite of the mighty struggle by which
+the earth was subdued, a deep feeling of peace and sweetness reigned
+over all. Each time that an obstacle was surmounted and the plow resumed
+its even, solemn progress, the laborer, whose pretended violence was
+but a trial of his strength, and an outlet for his energy, instantly
+regained that serenity which is the right of simple souls, and looked
+with fatherly pleasure toward his child, who turned to smile back at
+him. Then the young father would raise his manly voice in the solemn
+and melancholy chant that ancient tradition transmits, not indeed to all
+plowmen indiscriminately, but to those who are most perfect in the art
+of exciting and sustaining the spirit of cattle while at work. This
+song, which was probably sacred in its origin, and to which mysterious
+influences must once have been attributed, is still thought to
+possess the virtue of putting animals on their mettle, allaying their
+irritation, and of beguiling the weariness of their long, hard toil.
+It is not enough to guide them skilfully, to trace a perfectly straight
+furrow, and to lighten their labor by raising the plowshare or driving
+it into the earth; no man can be a consummate husbandman who does not
+know how to sing to his oxen, and that is an art that requires taste
+and especial gifts. To tell the truth, this chant is only a recitative,
+broken off and taken up at pleasure. Its irregular form and its
+intonations that violate all the rules of musical art make it impossible
+to describe.
+
+But it is none the less a noble song, and so appropriate is it to the
+nature of the work it accompanies, to the gait of the oxen, to the peace
+of the fields, and to the simplicity of the men who sing it, that no
+genius unfamiliar with the tillage of the earth, and no man except an
+accomplished laborer of our part of the country, could repeat it. At the
+season of the year when there is no work or stir afoot except that of
+the plowman, this strong, sweet refrain rises like the voice of the
+breeze, to which the key it is sung in gives it some resemblance. Each
+phrase ends with a long trill, the final note of which is held with
+incredible strength of breath, and rises a quarter of a tone, sharping
+systematically. It is barbaric, but possesses an unspeakable charm, and
+anybody, once accustomed to hear it, cannot conceive of another song
+taking its place at the same hour and in the same place, without
+striking a discord.
+
+So it was that I had before my eyes a picture the reverse of that of
+Holbein, although the scene was similar. Instead of a wretched old man,
+a young and active one; instead of a team of weary and emaciated horses,
+four yoke of robust and fiery oxen; instead of death, a beautiful
+child; instead of despair and destruction, energy and the possibility of
+happiness.
+
+Then the old French verse, “À la sueur de ton vis-aige,” etc., and
+Virgil's “O fortunatos... agricolas,” returned to my mind, and seeing
+this lovely child and his father, under such poetic conditions, and with
+so much grace and strength, accomplish a task full of such grand
+and solemn suggestions, I was conscious of deep pity and involuntary
+respect. Happy the peasant of the fields! Yes, and so too should I be
+in his place, if my arm and voice could be endowed with sudden strength,
+and I could help to make Nature fruitful, and sing of her gifts, without
+ceasing to see with my eyes or understand with my brain harmonious
+colors and sounds, delicate shades and graceful outlines; in short, the
+mysterious beauty of all things. And above all, if my heart continued
+to beat in concert with the divine sentiment that presided over the
+immortal sublimity of creation.
+
+But, alas! this man has never understood the mystery of beauty; this
+child will never understand it. God forbid that I should not think them
+superior to the animals which are subject to them, or that they have not
+moments of rapturous insight that soothe their toil and lull their cares
+to sleep. I see the seal of the Lord upon their noble brows, for they
+were born to inherit the earth far more truly than those who have bought
+and paid for it. The proof that they feel this is that they cannot be
+exiled with impunity, that they love the soil they have watered with
+their tears, and that the true peasant dies of homesickness under the
+arms of a soldier far from his native field. But he lacks some of my
+enjoyments, those pure delights which should be his by right, as a
+workman in that immense temple which the sky only is vast enough
+to embrace. He lacks the consciousness of his sentiment. Those who
+condemned him to slavery from his mother's womb, being unable to rob him
+of his vague dreams, took away from him the power of reflection.
+
+Yet, imperfect being that he is, sentenced to eternal childhood, he is
+nobler than the man in whom knowledge has stifled feeling. Do not set
+yourselves above him, you who believe yourselves invested with a lawful
+and inalienable right to rule over him, for your terrible mistake shows
+that your brain has destroyed your heart, and that you are the blindest
+and most incomplete of men! I love the simplicity of his soul more than
+the false lights of yours; and if I had to narrate the story of his
+life, the pleasure I should take in bringing out the tender and touching
+side of it would be greater than your merit in painting the degradation
+and contempt into which he is cast by your social code.
+
+I knew the young man and the beautiful child; I knew their history, for
+they had a history. Everybody has his own, and could make the romance
+of his life interesting, if he could but understand it. Although but a
+peasant and a laborer, Germain had always been aware of his duties and
+affections. He had related them to me clearly and ingenuously, and I had
+listened with interest. After some time spent in watching him plow, it
+occurred to me that I might write his story, though that story were as
+simple, as straightforward, and unadorned as the furrow he was tracing.
+
+Next year that furrow will be filled and covered by a fresh one. Thus
+disappear most of the footprints made by man in the field of human life.
+A little earth obliterates them, and the furrows we have dug succeed one
+another like graves in a cemetery. Is not the furrow of the laborer of
+as much value as that of the idler, even if that idler, by some absurd
+chance, have made a little noise in the world, and left behind him an
+abiding name?
+
+I mean, if possible, to save from oblivion the furrow of Germain,
+the skilled husbandman. He will never know nor care, but I shall take
+pleasure in my talk.
+
+
+
+
+II -- Father Maurice
+
+“GERMAIN,” said his father-in-law one day, “you must decide about
+marrying again. It is almost two years now since you lost my daughter,
+and your eldest boy is seven years old! You are almost thirty, my boy,
+and you know that in our country a man is considered too old to go to
+housekeeping again after that age; you have three nice children, and
+thus far they have not proved a burden to us at all. My wife and my
+daughter-in-law have looked after them as well as they could, and loved
+them as they ought. Here is Petit-Pierre almost grown up. He goads the
+oxen very well; he knows how to look after the cattle; and he is strong
+enough to drive the horses to the trough. So it is not he that worries
+us. But the other two, love them though we do, God knows the poor little
+innocents give us trouble enough this year; my daughter-in-law is about
+to lie in, and she has yet another baby to attend to. When the child
+we are expecting comes, she will not be able to look after your little
+Solange, and above all your Sylvain, who is not four years old, and who
+is never quiet day or night. He has a restless disposition like yours;
+that will make a good workman of him, but it makes a dreadful child, and
+my old wife cannot run fast enough to save him when he almost tumbles
+into the ditch, or when he throws himself in front of the tramping
+cattle. And then with this other that my daughter-in-law is going to
+bring into the world, for a month at least her next older child will
+fall on my wife's hands. Besides, your children worry us, and give us
+too much to do; we hate to see children badly looked after, and when we
+think of the accidents that may befall them, for want of care, we cannot
+rest. So you need another wife, and I another daughter-in-law. Think
+this over, my son. I have called it to your mind before. Time flies,
+and the years will not wait a moment for you. It is your duty to your
+children and to the rest of us, who wish all well at home, to marry as
+soon as you can.” “Very well, father,” answered the son-in-law, “if you
+really wish it, I must do as you say. But I do not wish to hide it from
+you that it will make me very sad, and that I hardly wish tor anything
+but to drown myself. We know who it is we lose, we never know whom we
+find. I had a good wife, a pretty wife, sweet, brave, good to her father
+and mother, good to her husband, good to her children, good to toil in
+the fields and in the house, well fitted to work,--in short, good for
+everything; and when you had given her to me, and I took her, we did
+not place it among our promises that I should go and forget about her if
+I had the misfortune to lose her.”
+
+“What you say shows your good heart, Germain,” answered Father Maurice.
+“I know that you loved my daughter and that you made her happy, and
+that had you been able to satisfy Death by going in her place, Catherine
+would be alive today, and you would be in the graveyard. She deserved
+all your love, and if you are not consoled, neither are we. But I do not
+speak to you of forgetting her: God wished her to leave us, and we do
+not let a day go by without telling him in our prayers and thoughts,
+and words and actions, that we keep her memory and still sorrow for her
+loss. But if she could speak to you from the other world, and let you
+know what she wishes, she would tell you to find a mother for her little
+orphans. So the question is to find a woman who will be worthy to take
+her place. It will not be easy, but it is not impossible. And when
+we shall find her for you, you will love her as you used to love my
+daughter, because you are a good man, and because you will be thankful
+to her for helping us and for loving your children.”
+
+“Very well, Father Maurice, I shall do as you wish, as I have always
+done.”
+
+“It is only justice, my son, to say that you have always listened to the
+friendly advice and good judgment of the head of the house. So let us
+consult about your choice of a new wife. First, I don't advise you to
+take a young girl. That is not what you need. Youth is careless, and, as
+it is hard work to bring up three children, especially when they are of
+another bed, you must have a good soul, wise and gentle, and well used
+to work. If your wife is not about the same age as you, she will have
+no reason to accept such a duty. She will find you too old and your
+children too young. She will be complaining, and your children will
+suffer.”
+
+“This is just what makes me uneasy. Suppose the poor little things
+should be badly treated, hated, beaten?”
+
+“God grant not,” answered the old man. “But bad women are more rare with
+us than good, and we shall be stupid if we cannot pick out somebody who
+will suit us.”
+
+“That is true, father. There are good girls in our village. There is
+Louise, Sylvaine, Claudie, Marguerite--yes, anybody you want.”
+
+“Gently, gently, my boy. All these girls are too young, or too poof,
+or too pretty; for surely we must think of that top, my son. A pretty
+woman is not always as well behaved as another!”
+
+“Then you wish me to take an ugly wife?” said Germain, a little uneasy.
+
+“No, not ugly at all, for this woman will bear you other children, and
+there is nothing more miserable than to have children who are ugly and
+weak and sickly. But a woman still fresh and in good health, who is
+neither pretty nor ugly, would suit you exactly.”
+
+“I am quite sure,” said Germain, smiling rather sadly, “that to get
+such a woman as you wish, you must have her made to order. All the more
+because you don't wish her to be poor, and the rich are not easy to get,
+particularly for a widower.”
+
+“And suppose she were a widow herself, Germain? A widow without children
+and with a good portion?”
+
+“For the moment, I cannot think of anybody like this in our parish.”
+
+“Nor I either. But there are others elsewhere.”
+
+“You have somebody in mind, father. Then tell me, at once, who it is.”
+
+
+
+
+III -- Germain, the Skilled Husbandman
+
+“YES, I have somebody in mind,” replied Father Maurice. “It is a
+Leonard, the widow of a Guérin. She lives at Fourche.”
+
+“I know neither the woman nor the place,” answered Germain, resigned,
+but growing more and more melancholy.
+
+“Her name is Catherine, like your dead wife's.”
+
+“Catherine? Yes, I shall be glad to have to pronounce that name,
+Catherine; and yet if I cannot love one as much as the other, it will
+pain me all the more. It will bring her to my mind more often.”
+
+“I tell you, you will love her. She is a good soul, a woman with a warm
+heart. I have not seen her for a long time. She was not an ugly girl
+then. But she is no longer young. She is thirty-two. She comes of a good
+family, honest people all of them, and for property she has eight or ten
+thousand francs in land which she would sell gladly in order to invest
+in the place where she settles. For she, too, is thinking of marrying
+again, and I know that if your character pleases her, she will not be
+dissatisfied with your situation.”
+
+“So you have made all the arrangements?”
+
+“Yes, except that I have not had an opinion from either of you, and that
+is what you must ask each other when you meet. The woman's father is
+a distant connection of mine, and he has been a good friend to me. You
+know Father Leonard well?”
+
+“Yes, I have seen you two talking at the market, and at the last you
+lunched together. Then it was about her that he spoke to you so long?”
+
+“Certainly. He watched you selling your cattle and saw that you drove
+a shrewd bargain, and that you were a good-looking fellow and appeared
+active and intelligent; and when I told him what a good fellow you were
+and how well you have behaved toward us, without one word of vexation or
+anger during the eight years we have been living and working together,
+he took it into his head to marry you to his daughter. This suits me,
+too, I admit, when I think of her good reputation and the honesty of her
+family and the prosperous condition I know her affairs are in.”
+
+“I see, Father Maurice, that you have an eye to money.”
+
+“Of course I do; you have, too, have you not?”
+
+“I do look toward it, if you wish, for your sake; but you know that,
+for my own part, I don't worry whether I gain or not in what we make. I
+don't understand about profit-sharing; I have no head for that sort
+of thing. I understand the ground; I understand cattle, horses, carts,
+sowing, threshing, and provender. As for sheep, and vineyards, and
+vegetables, petty profits, and fine gardening, you know that is your
+son's business. I don't have much to do with it. As to money, my memory
+is short, and I should rather give up everything than fight about what
+is yours and what is mine. I should be afraid of making some mistake and
+claiming what does not belong to me, and if business were not so clear
+and simple I should never find my way in it.”
+
+“So much the worse, my son; and this is the reason I wish you to have a
+wife with a clear head to fill my place when I am gone. You never wished
+to understand our accounts, and this might lead you into a quarrel with
+my son, when you don't have me any longer to keep you in harmony and
+decide what is each one's share.”
+
+“May you live long, Father Maurice. But do not worry about what will
+happen when you die. I shall never quarrel with your son. I trust
+Jacques as I do you; and as I have no property of my own, and all that
+might accrue to me comes from your daughter and belongs to our children,
+I can rest easy, and you, too. Jacques would never rob his sister's
+children for the sake of his own, for he loves them all equally.”
+
+“You are right, Germain. Jacques is a good son, a good brother, and a
+man who loves the truth. But Jacques may die before you, before your
+children grow up; and in a family we must always remember never to
+leave children without a head to look after them and govern their
+disagreements; otherwise, the lawyer-people mix themselves up in it,
+stir them up to fight, and make them eat up everything in law-suits.
+So we ought not to think of bringing home another person, man or woman,
+without remembering that some day or other that person may have to
+control the behavior and business of twenty or thirty children and
+grandchildren, sons-in-law and daughters-in-law. We never know how big a
+family can grow, and when a hive is so full that the bees must form new
+swarms, each one wishes to carry off her share of the honey. When I took
+you for my son, although my daughter was rich and you were poor, I never
+reproached her for choosing you. I saw that you were a hard worker, and
+I knew very well that the best fortune for people in such a country as
+ours is a pair of arms and a heart like yours. When a man brings these
+into a family, he brings enough. But with a woman it is different. Her
+work indoors saves, but it does not gain. Besides, now that you are
+a father, looking for a second wife, you must remember that your new
+children will have no claim on the property of your children by another
+wife; and if you should happen to die they might suffer very much--at
+least, if your wife had no money in her own right. And then the children
+which you will add to our colony will cost something to bring up. If
+that fell on us alone, we should surely take care of them without a word
+of complaint; but the comfort of everybody would suffer, and your eldest
+children would bear their share of hardship. When families grow too
+large, if money does not keep pace, misery comes, no matter how bravely
+you bear up. This is what I wished to say, Germain; think it over,
+and try to make the widow Guérin like you; for her discretion and her
+dollars will help us now and make us feel easy about the future.”
+
+“That is true, Father. I shall try to please her and to like her.”
+
+“To do that you must go to find her, and see her.”
+
+“At her own place? At Fourche? That is a great way from here, is it not?
+And we scarcely have time to run off at this season of the year.”
+
+“When it is a question of a love-match you must make up your mind to
+lose time, but when it is a sensible marriage of two people, who take
+no sudden fancies and know what they want, it is very soon decided.
+To-morrow is Saturday; you will make your day's work a little shorter
+than usual. You must start after dinner about two o'clock. You will be
+at Fourche by nightfall. The moon rises early. The roads are good, and
+it is not more than three leagues distant. It is near Magnier. Besides,
+you will take the mare.”
+
+“I had just as lief go afoot in this cool weather.”
+
+“Yes, but the mare is pretty, and a suitor looks better when he comes
+well mounted. You must put on your new clothes and carry a nice present
+of game to Father Leonard. You will come from me and talk with him, pass
+all of Sunday with his daughter, and come back Monday morning with a yes
+or no.”
+
+“Very well,” answered Germain calmly, and yet he did not feel very calm.
+
+Germain had always lived soberly, as industrious peasants do. Married
+at twenty, he had loved but one woman in his life, and after her death,
+impulsive and gay as his nature was, he had never played nor trifled
+with another. He had borne a real sorrow faithfully in his heart, and
+it was not without misgiving nor without sadness that he yielded to his
+father-in-law; but that father had always governed the family wisely,
+and Germain, entirely devoted as he was to the common welfare and so,
+by consequence, to the head of the house, who represented it, could not
+understand that he might have wronged his own good sense and hurt the
+interests of all. Nevertheless, he was sad. Few days went by when he did
+not cry in secret, for his wife, and although loneliness began to weigh
+on him, he was more afraid of entering into a new marriage than desirous
+of finding a support in his sorrow. He had a vague idea that love might
+have consoled him by coming to him of a sudden, for this is the only way
+love can console. We never find it when we seek it; it comes over us
+unawares.
+
+This cold-blooded scheme of marriage that Father Maurice had opened to
+him, this unknown woman he was to take for his bride, perhaps even all
+that had been said to him of her virtue and good sense, made him pause
+to think. And he went away musing as men do whose thoughts are too few
+to divide into hostile factions, not scraping up fine arguments for
+rebellion and selfishness but suffering from a dull grief, submissive to
+ills from which there is no escape.
+
+Meanwhile, Father Maurice had returned to the farm, while Germain,
+between sunset and dark, spent the closing hour of the day in repairing
+gaps the sheep had made in the hedge of a yard near the farm-buildings.
+He lifted up the branches of the thorn-bushes and held them in place
+with clods of earth, whilst the thrushes chattered in the neighboring
+thicket and seemed to call to him to hurry, for they were eager to come
+and see his work as soon as he had gone.
+
+
+
+
+IV -- Mother Guillette
+
+FATHER MAURICE found at his house an old neighbor who had come to talk
+with his wife, seeking at the same time to secure a few embers to light
+her fire. Mother Guillette lived in a wretched hut two gunshots away
+from the farm. Still she was a willing and an orderly woman. Her poor
+dwelling was clean and neat, and the care with which her clothes were
+mended showed that she respected herself in the midst of her penury.
+
+“You have come to fetch your evening fire, Mother Guillette,” said the
+old man to her. “Is there anything else you want?”
+
+“No, Father Maurice,” answered she; “nothing for the present. I am no
+beggar, as you know, and I take care not to abuse the kindness of my
+friends.”
+
+“That is very true. Besides, your friends are always ready to do you a
+service.”
+
+“I was just talking to your wife, and I was asking her if Germain had
+finally decided to marry again.”
+
+“You are no gossip,” replied Father Maurice; “we can talk in your
+presence without having any foolish tale-bearing to fear. So I will tell
+my wife and you that Germain has made up his mind absolutely. To-morrow
+morning he starts for the farm at Fourche.”
+
+“Good enough!” cried Mother Maurice; “poor child! God grant he may find
+a woman as good and true as he.”
+
+“So he is going to Fourche?” remarked Mother Guillette; “how lucky that
+is! It is exactly what I want. And since you were just asking me
+if there were anything I wished for, I am going to tell you, Father
+Maurice, how you can do me a service.”
+
+“Tell me what it is; we like to help you.”
+
+“I wish Germain would be so kind as to take my daughter along with him.”
+
+“Where? To Fourche?”
+
+“No, not to Fourche, but to Ormeaux. She is to stay there the rest of
+the year.”
+
+“What!” exclaimed Mother Maurice, “are you going to separate from your
+daughter?”
+
+“She must go out to work and earn her living. I am sorry enough, and she
+is too, poor soul. We could not make up our minds to part Saint John's
+Day, but now that Saint Martin's is upon us, she finds a good place as
+shepherdess at the farms at Ormeaux. On his way home from the fair the
+other day, the farmer passed by here. He caught sight of my little Marie
+tending her three sheep on the common.
+
+“'You have hardly enough to do, my little girl,' said he; 'three sheep
+are not enough for a shepherdess: would you like to take care of a
+hundred? I will take you along. Our shepherdess has fallen sick. She is
+going back to her family, and if you will be at our farm before a week
+is over, you shall have fifty francs for the rest of the year up to
+Saint John's Day.'
+
+“The child refused, but she could not help thinking it over and telling
+me about it, when she came home in the evening, and found me downhearted
+and worried about the winter, which was sure to be hard and long; for
+this year the cranes and wild ducks were seen crossing the sky a whole
+month before they generally do. We both of us cried, but after a time
+we took heart. We knew that we could not stay together, since it is hard
+enough for one person to get a living from our little patch of ground.
+Then since Marie is old enough,--for she is going on to sixteen,--she
+must do like the rest, earn her own living and help her poor mother.”
+
+“Mother Guillette,” said the old laborer, “if it were only fifty francs
+you needed to help you out of your trouble, and save you from sending
+away your daughter, I should certainly find them for you, although
+fifty francs is no trifle for people like us. But in everything we must
+consult common sense as well as friendship. To be saved from want this
+year will not keep you from want in the future, and the longer your
+daughter takes to make up her mind, the harder you both will find it
+to part. Little Marie is growing tall and strong. She has not enough at
+home to keep her busy. She might get into lazy habits...”
+
+“Oh, I am not afraid of that!” exclaimed Mother Guillette. “Marie is as
+active as a rich girl at the head of a large family can be. She never
+sits still with her arms folded for an instant, and when we have no work
+to do, she keeps dusting and polishing our old furniture until it shines
+like a mirror. The child is worth her weight in gold, and I should much
+rather have her enter your service as a shepherdess than go so far away
+to people I don't know. You would have taken her at Saint John's Day;
+but now you have hired all your hands, and we cannot think of that till
+Saint John's Day next year.”
+
+“Yes, I consent with all my heart, Guillette. I shall be very glad to
+take her. But in the mean time she will do well to learn her work, and
+accustom herself to obey others.”
+
+“Yes, that is true, no doubt. The die is cast. The farmer at Ormeaux
+sent to ask about her this morning; we consented, and she must go. But
+the poor child does not know the way, and I should not like to send her
+so far alone. Since your son-in-law goes to Fourche to-morrow, perhaps
+he can take her. It seems that Fourche is close to her journey's end. At
+least, so they tell me, for I have never made the trip myself.”
+
+“It is very near indeed, and my son will show her the way. Naturally, he
+might even take her up behind him on the mare. That will save her shoes.
+Here he comes for supper. Tell me, Germain, Mother Guillette's little
+Marie is going to become a shepherdess at Ormeaux. Will you take her
+there on your horse?”
+
+“Certainly,” answered Germain, who, troubled as he was, never felt
+indisposed to do a kindness to his neighbor.
+
+In our community a mother would not think of such a thing as to trust
+a girl of sixteen to a man of twenty-eight. For Germain was really
+but twenty-eight, and although according to the notions of the
+country people he was considered rather old to marry, he was still the
+best-looking man in the neighborhood. Toil had not wrinkled and worn him
+as it does most peasants who have passed ten years in till-ing the soil.
+He was strong enough to labor for ten more years without showing signs
+of age, and the prejudices of her time must have weighed heavily on the
+mind of a young girl to prevent her from seeing that Germain had a fresh
+complexion, eyes sparkling and blue as skies in May, ruddy lips, fine
+teeth, and a body well shaped and lithe as a young horse that has never
+yet left his pasture.
+
+But purity of manners is a sacred custom in some districts far distant
+from the corrupted life of great cities, and amongst all the
+households of Belair, the family of Maurice was known to be honest and
+truth-loving. Germain was on his way to find a wife. Marie was a child,
+too young and too poor to be thought of in this light, and unless he
+were a heartless and a bad man he could not entertain one evil thought
+concerning her. Father Maurice felt no uneasiness at seeing him take the
+pretty girl on the crupper. Mother Guillette would have thought herself
+doing him a wrong had she asked him to respect her daughter as his
+sister. Marie embraced her mother and her young friends twenty times,
+and then mounted the mare in tears. Germain, sad on his own account,
+felt all the more sympathy for her sorrow, and rode away with a
+melancholy air, while all the people of the neighborhood waved good-by
+to Marie without a thought of harm.
+
+
+
+
+V -- Petit-Pierre
+
+THE gray was young, good-looking, and strong. She carried her double
+burden with ease, laying back her ears and champing her bit like the
+high-spirited mare she was. Passing in front of the pasture, she caught
+sight of her mother, whose name was the Old Gray as hers was the Young
+Gray, and she whinnied in token of good-by. The Old Gray came nearer
+the hedge, and striking her shoes together she tried to gallop along the
+edge of the field in order to follow her daughter; then seeing her fall
+into a sharp trot, the mare whinnied in her turn and stood in an uneasy
+attitude, her nose in the air and her mouth filled with grass that she
+had no thought of eating.
+
+“That poor beast always knows her offspring,” said Germain, trying to
+keep Marie's thoughts from her troubles. “That reminds me, I never kissed
+Petit-Pierre before I started. The naughty boy was not there. Last night
+he wished to make me promise to take him along, and he wept for an hour
+in bed. This morning again, he tried everything to persuade me. Oh, how
+sly and coaxing he is! But when he saw that he could not gain his point,
+the young gentleman got into a temper. He went off to the fields, and I
+have not seen him all day.”
+
+“I have seen him,” said little Marie, striving to keep back her tears;
+“he was running toward the clearing with Soulas' children, and I felt
+sure that he had been away from home a long time, for he was hungry and
+was eating wild plums and blackberries. I gave him the bread I had for
+lunch, and he said, 'Thank you, dear Marie; when you come to our house,
+I will give you some cake.' He is a dear little child, Germain.”
+
+“Yes, he is,” answered the laborer; “and there is nothing I would not do
+for him. If his grandmother had not more sense than I, I could not have
+helped taking him with me, when I saw him crying as though his poor
+little heart would burst.”
+
+“Then why did you not take him, Germain? He, would have been very little
+trouble. He is so good when you please him.”
+
+“He would probably have been in the way in the place where I am going.
+At least Father Maurice thought so. On the other hand, I should have
+thought it well to see how they received him. For no one could help
+being kind to such a nice child. But at home they said that I must not
+begin by showing off all the cares of the household. I don't know why I
+speak of this to you, little Marie; you can't understand.”
+
+“Oh, yes, I do; I know that you are going away to marry; my mother spoke
+to me about it, and told me not to mention it to a soul, either at home
+or at my destination, and you need not be afraid; I shall not breathe a
+word about it.”
+
+“You are very right. For the deed is n't done yet. Perhaps I shall not
+suit this woman.”
+
+“I hope you will, Germain; why should you not suit her?”
+
+“Who knows? I have three children, and that is a heavy burden for a
+woman who is not their mother.”
+
+“Very true. But are not your children like other children?”
+
+“Do you think so?”
+
+“They are lovely as little angels, and so well brought up that you can't
+find better children.”
+
+“There 's Sylvain. He is none too obedient.”
+
+“He is so very little. He can't help being naughty. But he is very
+bright.”
+
+“He is bright it is true, and very brave. He is not afraid of cows
+nor bulls, and if he were given his own way, he would be climbing on
+horseback already with his elder brother.”
+
+“Had I been in your place, I would have taken the eldest boy along.
+Surely people would have liked you at once for having such a pretty
+child.”
+
+“Yes, if a woman is fond of children. But if she is not.”
+
+“Are there women who don't love children?”
+
+“Not many, I think, but still there are some, and that is what troubles
+me.”
+
+“You don't know this woman at all, then?”
+
+“No more than you, and I fear that I shall not know her better after I
+have seen her. I am not suspicious. When people say nice things to me,
+I believe them, but more than once I have had good reason to repent, for
+words are not deeds.”
+
+“They say that she is a very good woman.”
+
+“Who says so? Father Maurice?”
+
+“Yes, your father-in-law.”
+
+“That is all very well. But he knows her no more than I.”
+
+“Well, you will soon see. Pay close attention, and let us hope that you
+will not be deceived.”
+
+“I have it. Little Marie, I should be very much obliged if you would
+come into the house for a minute before you go straight on to Ormeaux.
+You are quick-witted; you have always shown that you are not stupid,
+and nothing escapes your notice. Should you see anything to rouse your
+suspicions, you must warn me of it very quietly.”
+
+“Oh! no, Germain, I will not do that; I should be too much afraid of
+making a mistake; and, besides, if a word lightly spoken were to turn
+you against this marriage, your family would bear me a grudge, and I
+have plenty of troubles now without bringing any more on my poor dear
+mother.”
+
+As they were talking thus, the gray pricked up her ears and shied; then
+returning on her steps, she approached the bushes, where she began to
+recognize something which had frightened her at first. Germain cast
+his eye over the thicket, and in a ditch, beneath the branches of a
+scrub-oak, still thick and green, he saw something which he took for a
+lamb.
+
+“The little creature is strayed or dead, for it does not move. Perhaps
+some one is looking for it; we must see.”
+
+“It is not an animal,” cried little Marie; “it is a sleeping child. It
+is your Petit-Pierre.”
+
+“Heavens!” exclaimed Germain; “see the little scamp asleep so far away
+from home, and in a ditch where a snake might bite him!”
+
+He lifted up the child, who smiled as he opened his eyes and threw his
+arms about his father's neck, saying: “Dear little father, you are going
+to take me with you.”
+
+“Oh, yes; always the same tune. What were you doing there, you naughty
+Pierre?”
+
+“I was waiting for my little father to go by. I was watching the road,
+and I watched so hard that I fell asleep.”
+
+“And if I had passed by without seeing you, you would have been out of
+doors all night, and a wolf would have eaten you up.”
+
+“Oh, I knew very well that you would see me,” answered Petit-Pierre,
+confidently.
+
+“Well, kiss me now, bid me good-by, and run back quickly to the house,
+unless you wish them to have supper without you.”
+
+“Are you not going to take me, then?” cried the little boy, beginning to
+rub his eyes to show that he was thinking of tears.
+
+“You know very well that grandpapa and grand-mama do not wish it,” said
+Germain, fortifying himself behind the authority of his elders, like a
+man who distrusts his own.
+
+The child would not listen. He began to cry with all his might, saying
+that as long as his father was taking little Marie, he might just as
+well take him too. They replied that they must pass through great woods
+filled with wicked beasts who eat up little children. The gray would not
+carry three people; she had said so when they were starting, and in the
+country where they were going there was no bed and no supper for little
+boys. All these good reasons could not persuade Petit-Pierre; he threw
+himself on the ground, and rolled about, shrieking that his little
+father did not love him any more, and that if he did not take him he
+would never go back to the house at all, day or night.
+
+Germain had a father's heart, as soft and weak as a woman's. His-wife's
+death, and the care which he had been obliged to bestow all alone on his
+little ones, as well as the thought that these poor motherless children
+needed a great deal of love, combined to make him thus. So such a sharp
+struggle went on within him, all the more because he was ashamed of his
+weakness and tried to hide his confusion from little Marie, that the
+sweat started out on his forehead, and his eyes grew red and almost
+ready to weep. At last he tried to get angry, but as he turned toward
+little Marie in order to let her witness his strength of mind, he saw
+that the good girls face was wet with tears; all his courage forsook him
+and he could not keep back his own, scold and threaten as he would.
+
+“Truly your heart is too hard,” said little Marie at last, “and for
+myself I know that I never could refuse a child who felt so badly. Come,
+Germain, let 's take him. Your mare is well used to carrying two people
+and a child, for you know that your brother-in-law and his wife, who is
+much heavier than I, go to market every Saturday with their boy on this
+good beast's back. Take him on the horse in front of you. Besides, I
+should rather walk on foot all alone than give this little boy so much
+pain.”
+
+“Never mind,” answered Germain, who was dying to allow himself to give
+way. “The gray is strong, and could carry two more if there were room on
+her back. But what can we do with this child on the way? He will be cold
+and hungry, and who will take care of him to-night and tomorrow, put
+him to bed, wash him, and dress him? I don't dare give this trouble to
+a woman I don't know, who will think, doubtless, that I am exceedingly
+free and easy with her to begin with.”
+
+“Trust me, Germain, you will know her at once by the kindness or the
+impatience that she shows. If she does not care to receive your Pierre,
+I will take charge of him myself. I will go to her house and dress him,
+and I will take him to the fields with me to-morrow. I will amuse him
+all day long, and take good care that he does not want for anything.”
+
+“He will tire you, my poor girl, and give you trouble. A whole day is a
+long time.”
+
+“Not at all; it will give me pleasure; he will keep me company, and that
+will make me less sad the first day that I must pass in a new place. I
+shall fancy that I am still at home.”
+
+Seeing that little Marie was pleading for her, the child seized upon her
+skirt and held it so tight that they must have hurt him in order to
+tear it away. When he perceived that his father was weakening, he took
+Marie's hand in both his tiny sunburned fists and kissed her, leaping
+for joy, and pulling her toward the mare with the burning impatience
+children feel in their desires.
+
+“Come along,” said the young girl, lifting him in her arms; “let us try
+to quiet his poor little heart. It is fluttering like a little bird; and
+if you feel the cold when night comes on, tell me, my Pierre, and I will
+wrap you in my cape. Kiss your little father, and beg his pardon for
+being naughty. Tell him that you will never, never be so again. Do you
+hear?”
+
+“Yes, yes, provided that I always do just as he wishes. Is n't it
+so?” said Germain, drying the little boy's eyes with his handkerchief.
+“Marie, you are spoiling the little rascal. But really and truly, you
+are too good, little Marie. I don't know why you did not come to us
+as shepherdess last Saint John's Day. You would have taken care of my
+children, and I should much rather pay a good price for their sake than
+try to find a woman who will think, perhaps, she is doing me a great
+kindness if she does not detest them.”
+
+“You must not look on the dark side of things,” answered little Marie,
+holding the horse's bridle while Germain placed his son in front of the
+big pack-saddle covered with goatskin. “If your wife does not care for
+children, take me into your service next year, and you may be sure I
+shall amuse them so well that they will not notice anything.”
+
+
+
+
+VI -- On the Heath
+
+“DEAR ME,” said Germain, after they had gone a few steps farther, “what
+will they think at home when they miss the little man? The family will
+be worried, and will be looking everywhere for him.”
+
+“You can tell the man who is mending the road up there that you are
+taking him along, and ask him to speak to your people.”
+
+“That is very true, Marie; you don't forget anything. It never occurred
+to me that Jeannie must be there.”
+
+“He lives close to the farm, and he will not fail to do your errand.”
+
+When they had taken this precaution, Germain put the mare to a trot, and
+Petit-Pierre was so overjoyed that for a time he forgot that he had
+gone without his dinner; but the motion of the horse gave him a hollow
+feeling in his stomach, and at the end of a league, he began to gape and
+grow pale, and confessed that he was dying of hunger.
+
+“This is the way it begins,” exclaimed Germain. “I was quite sure that
+we should not go far without this young gentleman crying with hunger or
+thirst.”
+
+“I am thirsty, too!” said Petit-Pierre.
+
+“Very well, then, let 's go to Mother Rebec's tavern at Corlay, the
+sign of 'The Dawn'--a pretty sign, but a poor lodging. You will take
+something to drink, too, will you not, Marie?”
+
+“No, no; I don't want anything. I will hold the mare while you go in
+with the child.”
+
+“But I remember, my good girl, that this morning you gave the bread from
+your own breakfast to my Pierre. You have had nothing to eat. You would
+not take dinner with us at home; you would do nothing but cry.”
+
+“Oh, I was not hungry; I felt too sad, and I give you my word that even
+now I have no desire to eat.”
+
+“You must oblige yourself to eat, little girl, else you will fall sick.
+We have a long way to go, and it will not do to arrive half-starved and
+beg for bread before we say how d' ye do. I shall set you a good example
+myself, although I am not very hungry: and I am sure that I can, for,
+after all, I did not eat any dinner. I saw you crying, you and your
+mother, and it made me feel sad. Come along. I am going to tie the gray
+at the door. Get down; I wish you to.”
+
+All three entered the inn, and in less than fifteen minutes the fat,
+lame hostess was able to place before them a nice-looking omelette, some
+brown bread, and a bottle of light wine.
+
+Peasants do not eat quickly, and little Pierre had such a good appetite
+that a whole hour passed before Germain could think of starting out
+again. At first little Marie ate in order to be obliging; then little
+by little she grew hungry. For, at sixteen, a girl cannot fast for long,
+and country air is dictatorial.
+
+The kind words with which Germain knew how to comfort her and strengthen
+her courage, produced their effect. She tried hard to persuade herself
+that seven months would soon be over, and to think of the pleasure in
+store for her when she saw once more her family and her hamlet; for
+Father Maurice and Germain had both promised to take her into their
+service. But just as she began to cheer up and play with little Pierre,
+Germain was so unfortunate as to point out to her from the inn window
+the lovely view of the valley which can all be seen from this height,
+and which looks so happy and green and fertile.
+
+Marie looked and asked if the houses of Belair were in sight.
+
+“No doubt,” said Germain, “and the farm, too, and even your house--see!
+that tiny gray spot not far from Godard's big poplar, below the belfry.”
+
+“Ah, I see it,” said the little girl; and then she began to cry.
+
+“I ought not to have made you think of it,” said Germain. “I can do
+nothing but stupid things today. Come along, Marie; let 's start, and in
+an hour, when the moon rises, it will not be hot.”
+
+They resumed their journey across the great heath, and for fear of
+tiring the young girl and the child by too rapid a trot, Germain did not
+make the gray go very fast. The sun had set when they left the road to
+enter the wood.
+
+Germain knew the way as far as Magnier, but he thought it would be
+shorter to avoid the Chantaloube road and descend by Presles and La
+Sépulture, a route he was not in the habit of taking on his way to the
+fair. He lost his way, and wasted more time before he reached the wood.
+Even then he did not enter it on the right side, although he did not
+perceive his mistake, so that he turned his back on Fourche, and took a
+direction higher up on the way to Ardente.
+
+He was prevented still further from finding his way by a thick mist
+which rose as the night fell; one of those mists which come on autumn
+evenings when the whiteness of the moonlight renders them more undefined
+and more treacherous. The great pools of water scattered through the
+glades gave forth a vapor so dense that when the gray crossed them,
+their presence was known only by a splashing noise, and the difficulty
+with which she drew her feet from the mud.
+
+At last they found a good straight road, and when they came to the end
+of it, and Germain tried to discover where he was, he saw that he was
+lost. For Father Maurice had told him, when he explained the way, that
+on leaving the wood he must descend a very steep hillside, cross a wide
+meadow, and ford the river twice. He had even warned him to cross this
+river carefully; for, early in the season, there had been great rains,
+and the water might still be higher than usual. Seeing neither hillside
+nor meadows, nor river, but a heath, level and white as a mantle of
+snow, Germain stopped, looked about for a house, and waited for a
+passer-by, but could find nothing to set him right. Then he retraced his
+steps and reentered the wood. But the mist thickened yet more, the moon
+was completely hidden, the roads were execrable, and the quagmires deep.
+Twice the gray almost fell. Her heavy load made her lose courage, and
+although she kept enough sagacity to avoid the tree-trunks, she could
+not prevent her riders from striking the great branches which overhung
+the road at the height of their heads and caused them great danger.
+In one of these collisions Germain lost his hat, and only recovered it
+after much difficulty. Petit-Pierre had fallen asleep, and, lying like
+a log in his father's arms, hampered him so that he could no longer hold
+up nor direct the horse.
+
+“I believe we are bewitched,” exclaimed Germain, stopping; “for the
+wood is not large enough to get lost in, if a man is not drunk, and here
+we have been turning round and round for two hours at least, without
+finding a way out. The gray has but one idea in her head, and that is to
+get home. It is she who is deceiving me. If we wish to go home, we have
+only to give her the bit. But when we are perhaps but two steps from
+our journey's end, it would be foolish to give up and return such a long
+road; and yet I am at a loss what to do. I cant see sky or earth, and
+I am afraid that the child will catch the fever if we remain in this
+cursed fog, or that he will be crushed beneath our weight if the horse
+falls forward.”
+
+“We must not persist longer,” said little Marie. “Let 's dismount,
+Germain. Give me the child; I can carry him perfectly well, and I know
+better than you how to keep the cloak from falling open and leaving
+him exposed. You lead the mare by her bridle. Perhaps we shall see more
+clearly when we are nearer the ground.”
+
+This precaution was of service only in saving them from a fall, for the
+fog hung low and seemed to stick to the damp earth.
+
+Their advance was painfully slow, and they were soon so weary that they
+halted when they reached a dry spot beneath the great oaks.
+
+Little Marie was in a violent sweat, but she uttered not a word of
+complaint, nor did she worry about anything. Thinking only of the child,
+she sat down on the sand and laid it upon her knees, while Germain
+explored the neighborhood, after having fastened the gray's reins to the
+branch of a tree.
+
+But the gray was very dissatisfied with the journey. She reared
+suddenly, broke the reins loose, burst her girths, and giving, by way of
+receipt, half a dozen kicks higher than her head, she started across the
+clearing, showing very plainly that she needed no one to show her the
+way home.
+
+“Well, here we are afoot,” said Germain, after a vain attempt to catch
+the horse, “and it would do us no good now if we were on the good road,
+for we should have to ford the river on foot, and since these paths are
+filled with water, we may be sure that the meadow is wholly submerged.
+We don't know the other routes. We must wait until this fog clears. It
+can't last more than an hour or two; as soon as we can see clearly, we
+shall look about for a house, the first we come to near the edge of the
+wood. But for the present we can't stir from here. There is a ditch
+and a pond over there. Heaven knows what is in front of us, and what is
+behind us is more than I can say now, for I have forgotten which way we
+came.”
+
+
+
+
+VII -- Underneath the Big Oaks
+
+“WELL, we must be patient, Germain,” said little Marie. “We are not
+badly off on this little hillock. The rain does not pierce the leaves of
+these big oaks, and we can light a fire, for I can feel old stumps which
+stir readily and are dry enough to burn. You have a light, Germain, have
+you not? You were smoking your pipe a few minutes ago.”
+
+“I did have; my tinderbox was in my bag on the saddle with the game that
+I was bringing to my bride that is to be, but that devilish mare has run
+away with everything, even with my cloak, which she will lose and tear
+to bits on every branch she comes to.” “No, no, Germain; saddle and
+cloak and bag are all there on the ground at your feet. The gray burst
+her girths, and threw off everything as she ran away.”
+
+“That's true, thank God,” exclaimed the laborer; “if we can grope about
+and find a little dead wood, we shall be able to dry ourselves and get
+warm.”
+
+“That 's not difficult,” said little Marie; “dead wood always cracks
+when you step on it. But will you give me the saddle?”
+
+“What do you want of it?”
+
+“To make a bed for the child. No, not that way. Upside down. He will
+not roll off into the hollow, and it is still very warm from the horse's
+back. Prop it up all around with the stones that you see there.”
+
+“I can't see a stone; you must have cat's eyes.”
+
+“There, it is all done, Germain. Hand me your cloak so that you can wrap
+up his little feet, and throw my cape over his body. Just see if he is
+not as comfortable as though he were in his own bed, and feel how warm
+he is.”
+
+“You certainly know how to take care of children, Marie.”
+
+“I need not be a witch to do that; now get your tinderbox from your bag,
+and I will arrange the wood.”
+
+“This wood will never catch fire; it is too damp.”
+
+“You are always doubting, Germain. Don't you remember when you were a
+shepherd, and made big fires in the fields right in the midst of the
+rain?”
+
+“Yes, that is a knack that belongs to children who take care of sheep;
+but I was made to drive the oxen as soon as I could walk.”
+
+“That is what has made your arms strong and your hands quick! Here, the
+fire is built; you shall see whether it does not burn. Give me the light
+and a handful of dry ferns. That is all right Now blow; you are not
+consumptive, are you?”
+
+“Not that I know of,” said Germain, blowing like a smith's bellows. In
+an instant the flame leaped up, and throwing out a red glare, it rose
+finally in pale blue jets under the oak branches, battling with the fog,
+and gradually drying the atmosphere for ten feet around.
+
+“Now I am going to sit by the child, so that the sparks may not fall
+on him,” said the young girl. “Pile on the wood and stir up the fire,
+Germain; we shall not catch cold nor fever here, I will answer for it.”
+
+“Upon my word, you are a clever girl,” said Germain; “and you know how
+to make a fire like a little fairy of the night. I feel quite revived,
+and my courage has come back again; for with my legs drenched up to the
+knees, and with the thought of staying this way till daylight, I was in
+a very bad temper just now.”
+
+“And when people are in a bad temper they don't think of anything,”
+ answered little Marie.
+
+“And are you never bad-tempered?”
+
+“No, never; what is the good of it?”
+
+“Oh, of course, there is no good; but how can you help it when you have
+troubles? Yet Heaven knows that you have not lacked them, my little
+girl; for you have not always been happy.”
+
+“It is true that my mother and I have suffered. We have had sorrows, but
+we have never lost heart.”
+
+“I should never lose heart, no matter how hard my work was,” said
+Germain, “but poverty would make me very sad; for I have never wanted
+for anything. My wife made me rich, and I am rich still; I shall be
+so as long as I work on the farm; and that will be always, I hope. But
+everybody must suffer his share! I have suffered in another way.”
+
+“Yes; you have lost your wife. That is very sad.”
+
+“Is n't it?”
+
+“Oh! Germain, I have wept for her many a time. She was so very kind! But
+don't let us talk about her longer, for I shall burst out crying. All my
+troubles are ready to come back to me to-day.”
+
+“It is true, she loved you dearly, little Marie. She used to make a
+great deal of you and your mother. Are you crying? Come, my girl, I
+don't want to cry....”
+
+“But you are crying, Germain! You are crying as hard as I. Why should
+a man be ashamed to weep for his wife? Don't let me trouble you. That
+sorrow is mine as well as yours.”
+
+“You have a kind heart, Marie, and it does me good to weep with you. Put
+your feet nearer the fire; your skirts are all soaked, too, poor little
+girl. I am going to take your place by the boy. You move nearer the
+fire.”
+
+“I am hot enough,” said Marie; “and if you wish to sit down, take a
+corner of the cloak. I am perfectly comfortable.”
+
+“The truth is that it is not so bad here,” said Germain, as he sat down
+beside her. “Only I feel very hungry again. It is almost nine o'clock,
+and I have had such hard work in walking over these vile roads that I
+feel quite tired out. Are you not hungry, too, little Marie?”
+
+“I?--not at all. I am not accustomed like you to four meals a day, and
+I have been to bed so often without my supper that once more does not
+trouble me.”
+
+“A woman like you is very convenient; she costs nothing,” said Germain,
+smiling.
+
+“I am not a woman,” exclaimed Marie, naïvely, without perceiving the
+direction the husbandman's ideas had taken. “Are you dreaming?”
+
+“Yes, I believe I must be dreaming,” answered Germain. “Perhaps hunger
+is making my mind wander.”
+
+“How greedy you are,” answered she, brightening in her turn. “Well, if
+you can't live five or six hours without eating, have you not game in
+your bag and fire to cook it?”
+
+“By Jove, that's a good idea! But how about the present to my future
+father-in-law?”
+
+“You have six partridges and a hare! I suppose you do not need all of
+them to satisfy your appetite.”
+
+“But how can we cook them without a spit or andirons. They will be
+burned to a cinder!”
+
+“Not at all,” said little Marie; “I warrant that I can cook them for you
+under the cinders without a taste of smoke. Have you never caught larks
+in the fields, and cooked them between two stones? Oh! that is true--I
+keep forgetting that you have never been a shepherd. Come, pluck the
+partridge. Not so hard! You will tear the skin.”
+
+“You might be plucking the other to show me how!”
+
+“Then you wish to eat two? What an ogre you are! They are all plucked. I
+am going to cook them.”
+
+“You would make a perfect little sutler's girl, Marie, but unhappily you
+have no canteen, and I shall have to drink water from this pool!”
+
+“You would like some wine, would you not? Possibly you might prefer
+coffee. You imagine yourself under the trees at the fair. Call out the
+host. Some wine for the good husbandman of Belair!”
+
+“You little witch, you are making fun of me! Would not you drink some
+wine if you had it?”
+
+“I? At Mother Rebec's, with you to-night, I drank some for the second
+time in my life. But if you are very good, I shall give you a bottle
+almost full, and excellent too.”
+
+“What? Marie, I verily believe you are a witch!”
+
+“Were you not foolish enough to ask for two bottles of wine at the inn?
+You and your boy drank one, and the other you set before me. I hardly
+drank three drops, yet you paid for both without looking.”
+
+“What then?”
+
+“Why, I put the full one in my basket, because I thought that you or
+your child would be thirsty on the journey. And here it is.”
+
+“You are the most thoughtful girl I have ever met. Although the poor
+child was crying when we left the inn, that did not prevent her from
+thinking of others more than of herself. Little Marie, the man who
+marries you will be no fool.”
+
+“I hope not, for I am not fond of fools. Come, eat up your partridges;
+they are done to a turn; and for want of bread, you must be satisfied
+with chestnuts.”
+
+“Where the deuce did you find chestnuts, too?”
+
+“It is extraordinary! All along the road I picked them off the branches
+as we went along, and filled my pockets.”
+
+“And are they cooked, too?”
+
+“Where would my wits have been had I not had sense enough to put the
+chestnuts in the fire as soon as it was lighted? That is the way we
+always do in the fields.”
+
+“So we are going to take supper together, little Marie. I want to
+drink your health and wish you a good husband, just the sort of a man
+that will suit you. Tell me what kind you want.”
+
+“I should find that very difficult, Germain, for I have not thought
+about it yet.”
+
+“What, not at all? Never?” said Germain, as he began to eat with a
+laborer's appetite, yet stopping to cut off the more tender morsels for
+his companion, who persisted in refusing them and contented herself with
+a few chestnuts.
+
+“Tell me, little Marie,” he went on, seeing that she had no intention
+of answering him, “have you never thought of marrying? Yet you are old
+enough?”
+
+“Perhaps,” she said, “but I am too poor. I need at least a hundred
+crowns to marry, and I must work five or six years to scrape them
+together.”
+
+“Poor girl, I wish Father Maurice were willing to give me a hundred
+crowns to make you a present of.”
+
+“Thank you kindly, Germain. What do you suppose people would say of me?”
+
+“What do you wish them to say of you? They know very well that I am too
+old to marry you. They would never believe that I--that you--”
+
+“Look, Germain, your child is waking up,” said little Marie.
+
+
+
+
+VIII -- The Evening Prayer
+
+PETIT-PIERRE had raised his head and was looking about him with a
+thoughtful air.
+
+“Oh, that is the way he always does, whenever he hears the sound of
+eating,” said Germain. “The explosion of a cannon would not rouse him,
+but if you work your jaws near him, he opens his eyes at once.”
+
+“You must have been just like him at his age,” said little Marie, with
+a sly smile. “See! my Petit-Pierre, you are looking for your canopy.
+To-night it is made all of green, my child; but your father eats his
+supper none the less. Do you wish to sup with him? I have not eaten your
+share; I thought that you might claim it.”
+
+“Marie, I wish you to eat,” cried the husbandman; “I shall not touch
+another morsel. I am a greedy glutton. You are depriving yourself for
+our sake. It is not fair. I am ashamed. It takes away all my appetite. I
+will not have my son eat his supper unless you take some too.”
+
+“Leave us alone,” said little Marie; “you have not the key to our
+appetites. Mine is tight shut to-day, but your Pierre's is as wide open
+as a little wolfs. Just see how he seizes his food. He will be a strong
+workman too, some day!”
+
+In truth, Petit-Pierre showed very soon whose son he was, and though
+scarcely awake and wholly at a loss to know where he was and how he
+had come there, he began to eat ravenously. As soon as his hunger was
+appeased, feeling excited as children do who break loose from their
+wonted habits, he had more wit, more curiosity, and more good sense than
+usual. He made them explain to him where he was, and when he found that
+he was in the midst of a forest, he grew a little frightened.
+
+“Are there wicked beasts in this forest?” he demanded of his father.
+
+“No, none at all. Don't be afraid.”
+
+“Then you told a story when you said that if I went with you into the
+great forest, the wolves would carry me off.”
+
+“Just see this logician,” said Germain, embarrassed.
+
+“He is right,” replied little Marie. “That is what you told him. He has
+a good memory, and has not forgotten. But, little Pierre, you must learn
+that your father never tells a story. We passed through the big forest
+whilst you were sleeping, and now we are in the small forest where there
+are no wicked beasts.”
+
+“Is the little forest very far away from the big one?”
+
+“Far enough; besides, the wolves never go out of the big forest. And
+then, if some of them should come here, your father would kill them.”
+
+“And you too, little Marie?”
+
+“Yes, we, too, for you would help also, my Pierre. You are not
+frightened, are you? You would beat them soundly?”
+
+“Yes, indeed, I would,” said the child, proudly, as he struck a heroic
+attitude; “we would kill them.”
+
+“There is nobody like you for talking to children and for making them
+listen to reason,” said Germain to little Marie. “To be sure, it is
+not long ago since you were a small child yourself, and you have not
+forgotten what your mother used to say to you. I believe that the
+younger one is, the better one gets on with children. I am very much
+afraid that a woman of thirty who does not yet know what it is to be a
+mother, would find it hard to prattle to children and reason with them.”
+
+“Why, Germain? I don't know why you have such a bad idea of this woman;
+you will change your mind.”
+
+“The devil take the woman!” exclaimed Germain. “I wish I were going away
+from her forever. What do I want of a wife whom I don't know?”
+
+“Little father,” said the child, “why is it that you speak so much of
+your wife to-day, since she is dead?”
+
+“Then you have not forgotten your poor, dear mother?”
+
+“No; for I saw her placed in a beautiful box of white wood, and my
+grandmother led me up to her to kiss her and say good-by. She was very
+white and very stiff, and every evening my aunt made me pray God that
+she might go to him in Heaven and be warm. Do you think that she is
+there now?”
+
+“I hope so, my child; but you must always pray. It shows your mother
+that you love her.”
+
+“I am going to say my prayers,” answered the boy. “I forgot them
+to-night. But I can't say them all alone, for I always forget something.
+Little Marie must help me.”
+
+“Yes, my Pierre, I will help you,” said the young girl. “Come and kneel
+down in my lap.”
+
+The child knelt down on the girl's skirt. He clasped his little hands
+and began to say his prayers, at first with great care and earnestness,
+for he knew the beginning very well, then slowly and with more
+hesitation, and finally repeating word by word after Marie, when he came
+to that place in his prayer where sleep overtook him so invariably that
+he had never been able to learn the end. This time again the effort of
+close attention and the monotony of his own accent produced their wonted
+effect. He pronounced the last syllables with great difficulty, and only
+after they were thrice repeated.
+
+His head grew heavy and fell on Marie's breast; his hands unclasped,
+divided, and fell open on his knees. By the light of the camp-fire,
+Germain watched his little darling hushed at the heart of the young
+girl, who, as she held him in her arms and warmed his fair hair with
+her sweet breath, had herself fallen into a holy reverie, and prayed in
+quiet for the soul of Catherine.
+
+Germain was touched. He tried to express to little Marie the grateful
+esteem which he felt for her, but he could find no fitting words.
+
+He approached her to kiss his son, whom she held close to her breast,
+and he could scarcely raise his lips from little Pierre's brow.
+
+“You kiss too hard,” said Marie, gently pushing away the husbandman's
+head. “You will wake him. Let me put him back to bed, for the boy has
+left us already for dreams of paradise.”
+
+The child allowed Marie to lay him down, but feeling the goatskin on the
+saddle, he asked if he were on the gray. Then opening his big blue eyes,
+and keeping them fixed on the branches for a minute, he seemed to be
+dreaming, wide-awake as he was, or to be struck with an idea which had
+slipped his mind during the daytime, and only assumed a distinct form at
+the approach of sleep.
+
+“Little father,” said he, “if you wish to give me a new mother, I hope
+it will be little Marie.”
+
+And without waiting for an answer, he closed his eyes and slept.
+
+
+
+
+
+IX -- Despite the Cold
+
+LITTLE MARIE seemed to give no more heed to the child's odd words than
+to regard them as a proof of friendship. She wrapped him up with care,
+stirred the fire, and as the fog resting on the neighboring pool gave
+no sign of lifting, she advised Germain to lie near the fire and take a
+nap.
+
+“I see that you are sleepy already,” said she, “for you don't say a word
+and you gaze into the fire, just as your little boy was doing.”
+
+“It is you who must sleep,” answered the husbandman, “and I will take
+care of both of you, for I have never felt less sleepy than I do now. I
+have fifty things to think of.”
+
+“Fifty is a great many,” said the little girl, with a mocking accent.
+“There are lots of people who would be delighted to have one.”
+
+“Well, if I am too stupid to have fifty, I have one, at least, which has
+not left me for the past hour.”
+
+“And I shall tell it to you as well as I told you those you thought of
+before.”
+
+“Yes, do tell me if you know, Marie. Tell me yourself. I shall be glad
+to hear.”
+
+“An hour ago,” she answered, “your idea was to eat--and now it is to
+sleep.”
+
+“Marie, I am only an ox-driver, but, upon my word, you take me for an
+ox. You are very perverse, and it is easy to see that you do not care to
+talk to me, so go to sleep. That will be better than to pick flaws in a
+man who is out of sorts.”
+
+“If you wish to talk, let 's talk,” said the girl, half reclining
+near the child and resting her head against the saddle. “You torment
+yourself, Germain, and you do not show much courage for a man. What
+would n't I say if I did n't do my best to fight my own troubles?”
+
+“Yes, that's very true, and that 's just what I am thinking of, my
+poor child. You are going to live, away from your friends, in a horrid
+country full of moors and fens, where you will catch the autumn fevers.
+Sheep do not pay well there, and this is always discouraging for a
+shepherdess if she means well. Then you will be surrounded by strangers
+who may not be kind to you and will not know how much you are worth. It
+makes me more sorry than I can tell you, and I have a great desire to
+take you home to your mother instead of going on to Fourche.”
+
+“You talk very kindly, but there is no reason for your misgivings, my
+poor Germain. You ought not to lose heart on your friend's account, and
+instead of showing me the dark side of my lot, you should show me the
+bright side, as you did after lunch at Rebec's.”
+
+“What can I do? That 's the way it appeared to me then, and now my ideas
+are changed. It is best for you to take a husband.”
+
+“That cannot be, Germain, and as it is out of the question, I think no
+more about it.”
+
+“Yet such a thing might happen. Perhaps if you told me what kind of a
+man you want, I might imagine somebody.”
+
+“Imagining is not finding. For myself, I never imagine, for it does no
+good.”
+
+“You are not looking for a rich man?”
+
+“Certainly not, for I am as poor as Job.”
+
+“But if he were comfortably off, you would n't be sorry to have a good
+house, and good food, and good clothes, and to live with an honest
+family who would allow you to help your mother.”
+
+“Oh, yes indeed! It is my own wish to help my mother.”
+
+“And if this man were to turn up, you would not be too hard to please,
+even if he were not so very young.”
+
+“Ah! There you must excuse me, Germain. That is just the point I insist
+on. I could never love an old man.”
+
+“An old man, of course not; but a man of my age, for example!”
+
+“Your age is too old for me, Germain. I should like Bastien's age,
+though Bastien is not so good-looking as you.”
+
+“Should you rather have Bastien, the swineherd?” said Germain,
+indignantly. “A fellow with eyes shaped like those of the pigs he
+drives!”
+
+“I could excuse his eyes, because he is eighteen.”
+
+Germain felt terribly jealous.
+
+“Well,” said he, “it's clear that you want Bastien, but, none the less,
+it 's a queer idea.”
+
+“Yes, that would be a queer idea,” answered little Marie, bursting into
+shouts of laughter, “and he would make a queer husband. You could gull
+him to your heart's content. For instance, the other day, I had picked
+up a tomato in the curate's garden. I told him that it was a fine, red
+apple, and he bit into it like a glutton. If you had only seen what a
+face he made. Heavens! how ugly he was!”
+
+“Then you don't love him, since you are making fun of him.”
+
+“That would n't be a reason. But I don't like him. He is unkind to his
+little sister, and he is dirty.” “Don't you care for anybody else?” “How
+does that concern you, Germain?” “Not at all, except that it gives me
+something to talk about. I see very well, little girl, that you have a
+sweetheart in your mind already.”
+
+“No, Germain, you 're wrong. I have no sweetheart yet. Perhaps one may
+come later, but since I cannot marry until I have something laid by, I
+am destined to marry late in life and with an old man.” “Then take an
+old man without delay.” “No. When I am no longer young, I shall not
+care; for the present, it is different.” “I see that I displease you,
+Marie; that's clear enough,” said Germain, impatiently, and without
+stopping to weigh his words.
+
+Little Marie did not answer. Germain bent over her. She was sleeping.
+She had fallen back, overcome, stricken down, as it were, by slumber, as
+children are who sleep before they cease to babble.
+
+Germain was glad that she had not caught his last words. He felt that
+they were unwise, and he turned his back to distract his attention and
+change his thoughts.
+
+It was all in vain. He could neither sleep nor think of anything except
+the words he had just spoken. He walked about the fire twenty times; he
+moved away; he came back. At last, feeling himself tremble as though he
+had swallowed gunpowder, he leaned against the tree which sheltered the
+two children, and watched them as they slept.
+
+“I know not how it is,” thought he; “I have never noticed that little
+Marie is the prettiest girl in the countryside. She has not much color,
+but her little face is fresh as a wild rose. What a charming mouth she
+has, and how pretty her little nose is! She is not large for her age,
+but she is formed like a little quail and is as light as a bird. I
+cannot understand why they made so much fuss at home over a big, fat
+woman with a bright red face. My wife was rather slender and pale, and
+she pleased me more than any one else. This girl is very frail, but she
+is healthy, and she is pretty to watch as a white kid. And then she has
+such a gentle, frank expression. You can read her good heart in her eyes
+even though they are closed in sleep. As to wit, I must confess she
+has more than ever my dear Catherine had, and she would never become
+wearisome. She is gay, wise, industrious, loving, and she is amusing. I
+don't know what more I could wish for....
+
+“But what is the use of thinking of all this?” Germain went on, trying
+to look in another direction. “My father-in-law would not hear of it,
+and all the family would think me mad! Besides, she would not have
+me herself, poor child! She thinks me too old; she told me so. She is
+unselfish, and does not mind poverty and worry, wearing old clothes, and
+suffering from hunger for two or three months every year, so long as she
+can satisfy her heart some day and give herself to the man she loves.
+She is right. I should do the same in her place, and even now, if I had
+my own way, instead of marrying a wife whom I don't care for, I would
+choose a girl after my own heart.”
+
+The more Germain tried to compose himself by reasoning, the further he
+was from succeeding. He walked away a dozen steps, to lose himself in
+the fog; then, all of a sudden, he found himself on his knees beside the
+two sleeping children. Once he wished to kiss Petit-Pierre, who had
+one arm about Marie's neck, and made such a mistake that Marie felt a
+breath, hot as fire, cross her lips, and awaking, looked about her with
+a bewildered expression, totally ignorant of all that was passing within
+his mind.
+
+“I did n't see you, my poor children,” said Germain, retreating rapidly.
+“I almost stumbled over you and hurt you.”
+
+Little Marie was so innocent that she believed him, and fell asleep
+again. Germain walked to the opposite side of the fire, and swore to God
+that he would not stir until she had waked. He kept his word, but not
+without a struggle. He thought that he would go mad.
+
+At length, toward midnight, the fog lifted, and Germain could see the
+stars shining through the trees. The moon freed herself from the mist
+which had hidden her, and began to sow her diamonds over the damp moss.
+The trunks of the oak-trees remained in impressive darkness, but beyond,
+the white branches of the birch-trees seemed a long line of phantoms in
+their shrouds. The fire cast its reflection in the pool; and the frogs,
+growing accustomed to the light, hazarded a few shrill and uneasy
+notes; the rugged branches of the old trees, bristling with dim-colored
+lichens, crossed and intertwined themselves, like great gaunt arms,
+above the travelers' heads. It was a lovely spot, but so lonely and
+so sad that Germain, unable to endure it more, began to sing and throw
+stones into the water to forget the dread weariness of solitude. He was
+anxious also to wake little Marie, and when he saw her rise and look
+about at the weather, he proposed that they start on their journey.
+
+“In two hours,” said he, “the approach of morning will chill the air so
+that we can't stay here in spite of our fire. Now we can see our way,
+and we shall soon find a house which will open its doors to us, or at
+least a barn where we can pass the rest of the night under shelter.”
+
+Marie had no will of her own, and although she was longing to sleep, she
+made ready to follow Germain. The husbandman took his boy in his arms
+without awaking him, and beckoned Marie to come nearer, in order to
+cover her with his cloak. For she would not take her own mantle, which
+was wrapped about the child.
+
+When he felt the young girl so close to him, Germain, who for a time had
+succeeded in distracting his mind and raising his spirits, began to lose
+his head once more. Two or three times he strode ahead abruptly, leaving
+her to walk alone. Then seeing how hard it was for her to follow, he
+waited, drew her quickly to his side, and pressed her so tight that she
+was surprised, and even angry, though she dared not say so.
+
+As they knew not the direction whence they had come, they had no idea of
+that in which they were going. So they crossed the wood once more, and
+found themselves afresh before the lonely moor. Then they retraced their
+steps, and after much turning and twisting they spied a light across the
+branches.
+
+“Good enough! Here 's a house,” exclaimed Germain. “And the people are
+already astir, for the fire is lighted. It must be very late.”
+
+It was no house, but the camp-fire, which they had covered before they
+left, and which had sprung up in the breeze.
+
+They had tramped for two hours, only to find themselves at the very
+place from which they had started.
+
+
+
+
+X -- Beneath the Stars
+
+“THIS time I give up,” said Germain, stamping I his foot. “We are
+bewitched, that is certain, and we shall not get away from here before
+broad day. The devil is in this place!”
+
+“Well, it's of no use to get angry,” said Marie. “We must take what is
+given us. Let us make a big fire. The child is so well wrapped up that
+he is in no danger, and we shall not die from a single night out of
+doors. Where have you hidden the saddle, Germain? Right in the midst of
+the holly-bushes,--what a goose you are! It 's very convenient to get it
+from there!”
+
+“Stop, child; hold the boy while I pull his bed from the thorns. I did
+n't want you to scratch your hands.”
+
+“It 's all done. Here 's the bed, and a few scratches are not
+saber-cuts,” replied the brave girl.
+
+She proceeded to put the child to bed again, and Petit-Pierre was so
+sound asleep this time that he knew nothing of his last journey. Germain
+piled so much wood on the fire that the forest all about glowed with the
+light.
+
+Little Marie had come to the end of her powers, and although she did not
+complain, her legs would support her no longer. She was white, and her
+teeth chattered with cold and weakness. Germain took her in his arms to
+warm her. The uneasiness, the compassion, the tenderness of movement he
+could not repress, took possession of his heart and stilled his senses.
+As by a miracle his tongue was loosened, and every feeling of shame
+vanished.
+
+“Marie,” said he, “I like you, and I am very sorry that you don't like
+me. If you would take me for your husband, there are no fathers, nor
+family, nor neighbors, nor arguments which could prevent me from giving
+myself to you. I know how happy you would make my children, and that you
+would teach them to love the memory of their mother, and with a quiet
+conscience I could satisfy the wishes of my heart. I have always been
+fond of you, and now I love you so well that were you to ask me to
+spend all my life in doing your pleasure, I would swear to do it on the
+instant. Please think how much I love you, and try to forget my age.
+Think that it is a wrong notion to believe that a man of thirty is old.
+Besides, I am but twenty-eight. A young girl is afraid that people will
+talk about her if she takes a man ten or twelve years older than she,
+simply because that is not the custom in our country, but I have heard
+say that in other countries people don't look at it in this light, and
+that they had rather allow a sensible man of approved courage to support
+a young girl, than trust her to a mere boy, who may go astray, and, from
+the honest fellow they thought him, turn into a good-for-nothing.
+And then years don't always make age. That depends on the health and
+strength a person has. When a man is used up by overwork and poverty,
+or by a bad life, he is old before twenty-five. While I--but Marie,
+you are not listening....” “Yes I am, Germain; I hear you perfectly,”
+ answered little Marie, “but I am thinking over what my mother used to
+tell me so often: that a woman of sixty is to be pitied greatly when
+her husband is seventy or seventy-five and can no longer work to support
+her. He grows feeble, and it becomes her duty to nurse him at the very
+age when she begins to feel great need of care and rest herself, and so
+it is that the end comes in a garret.”
+
+“Parents do well to say so, I admit,” answered Germain, “but then
+they would sacrifice all their youth, the best years of their life,
+to calculating what will become of them at the age when a person is no
+longer good for anything, and when it is a matter of indifference which
+way death comes. But I am in no danger of starving in my old age. I am
+even going to lay by something, since I live with my wife's parents and
+spend nothing. And then, you see, I shall love you so well that I can
+never grow old. They say that when a man is happy he keeps sound, and I
+know well that in love for you, I am younger than Bastien; for he does
+not love you; he is too stupid, too much of a child to understand how
+pretty and how good you are, and how you were made for people to court.
+Do not hate me, Marie. I am not a bad man. I made my Catherine happy,
+and on her death-bed she swore before God that she had had only
+happiness of me, and she asked me to marry again. Her spirit must have
+spoken to her child to-night. Did you not hear the words he said? How
+his little lips quivered as his eyes stared upward, watching something
+that we could not see! He was surely looking at his mother, and it was
+she who made him say that he wished you to take her place.”
+
+“Germain,” answered Marie, amazed and yet thoughtful, “you speak
+frankly, and everything that you say is true. I am sure that I should do
+well to love you if it did not displease your parents too much. But what
+can I do? My heart does not speak for you. I am very fond of you, but
+though your age does not make you ugly, it makes me afraid. It seems as
+if you were some such relation to me, as an uncle or a godfather, that I
+must be respectful toward you, and that there might be moments when you
+would treat me like a little girl rather than like your wife and your
+equal. And perhaps my friends would make fun of me, and although it
+would be silly to give heed to that, I think that I should be a little
+sad on my wedding-day.”
+
+“Those are but childish reasons, Marie; you speak like a child.”
+
+“Yes, that is true; I am a child,” said she, “and it is on that account
+I am afraid of too sensible a man. You must see that I am too young for
+you, since you just found fault with me for speaking foolishly. I can't
+have more sense than my age allows.”
+
+“O Heavens! How unlucky I am to be so clumsy and to express so ill what
+I think!” cried Germain. “Marie, you don't love me. That is the long
+and short of it. You find me too simple and too dull. If you loved me
+at all, you would not see my faults so clearly. But you do not love me.
+That is the whole story.”
+
+“That is not my fault,” answered she, a little hurt that he was speaking
+with less tenderness. “I am doing my best to hear you, but the more I
+try the less I can get it into my head that we ought to be husband and
+wife.”
+
+Germain did not answer. His head dropped into his hands, and little
+Marie could not tell whether he wept or sulked or was fast asleep. She
+felt uneasy when she saw him so cast down, and could not guess what was
+passing in his mind. But she dared not speak to him more, and as she
+was too astonished at what had passed to have any desire to sleep, she
+waited impatiently for dawn, tending the fire with care and watching
+over the child, whose existence Germain appeared to forget. Yet Germain
+was not asleep. He did not mope over his lot. He made no plans to
+encourage himself, nor schemes to entrap the girl. He suffered; he felt
+a great weight of grief at his heart. He wished that he were dead. The
+world seemed to turn against him, and if he could have wept at all, his
+tears would have come in floods. But mingled with his sorrow there was a
+feeling of anger against himself, and he felt choked, without the power
+or the wish to complain.
+
+When morning came, and the sounds of the country brought it to Germain's
+senses, he lifted his head from his hands and rose. He saw that little
+Marie had slept no more than he, but he knew no words in which to tell
+her of his anxiety. He was very discouraged. Hiding the gray's saddle
+once more in the thicket, he slung his sack over his shoulder and took
+his son by the hand.
+
+“Now, Marie,” said he, “we are going to try to end our journey. Do you
+wish me to take you to Ormeaux?”
+
+“Let us leave the woods together,” answered she, “and when we know where
+we are, we shall separate, and go our different ways.”
+
+Germain did not answer. He felt hurt that the girl did not ask him to
+take her as far as Ormeaux, and he did not notice that he had asked her
+in a tone well fitted to provoke a refusal.
+
+After a few hundred steps, they met a wood-cutter, who pointed out the
+highroad, and told them that when they had crossed the plain, one
+must turn to the right, the other to the left, to gain their different
+destinations, which were so near together that the houses of Fourche
+were in plain sight from the farm of Ormeaux, and _vice versa_.
+
+When they had thanked him and passed on, the wood-cutter called them
+back to ask whether they had not lost a horse.
+
+“Yes,” he said, “I found a pretty gray mare in my yard, where perhaps a
+wolf had driven her to seek refuge; my dogs barked the whole night long,
+and at daybreak I saw the mare under my shed. She is there now. Come
+along with me, and if you recognize her, you may take her.”
+
+When Germain had given a description of the gray, and felt convinced
+that it was really she, he started back to find his saddle. Little Marie
+offered to take his child to Ormeaux, whither he might go to get him
+after he had introduced himself at Fourche.
+
+“He is rather dirty after the night that we have passed,” said she. “I
+will brush his clothes, wash his pretty face, and comb his hair, and
+when he looks neat and clean, you can present him to your new family.”
+
+“Who told you that I wish to go to Fourche?” answered Germain,
+petulantly. “Perhaps I shall not go.”
+
+“But truly, Germain, it is your duty to go there. You will go there,”
+ replied the girl.
+
+“You seem very anxious to have me married off, so that you may be quite
+sure that I shall not trouble you again?”
+
+“Germain, you must not think of that any more. It is an idea which came
+to you in the night, because this unfortunate mishap took away your
+spirits. But now you must come to your senses. I promise you to forget
+everything that you said to me, and not to breathe it to a soul.”
+
+“Oh, say what you wish. It is not my custom to deny what I have spoken.
+What I told you was true and honest, and I shall not blush for it before
+anybody.”
+
+“Yes, but if your wife were to know that just before you came you were
+thinking of another woman, it would prejudice her against you. So take
+care how you speak now. Don't look at me before everybody with such a
+rapt expression. Think of Father Maurice, who relies on your obedience,
+and who would be enraged at me if I were to turn you from his will.
+Good-by, Germain. I take Petit-Pierre in order to force you to go to
+Fourche. He is a pledge which I keep on your behalf.”
+
+“So you want to go with her?” said the husbandman to his son, seeing
+that the boy had clasped Marie's hands and was following her resolutely.
+
+“Yes, father,” answered the child, who had heard the conversation and
+understood after his own fashion the words spoken so unguardedly before
+him. “I am going away with my dearest little Marie. You shall come to
+find me when you have done marrying, but I wish Marie to be my little
+mother.”
+
+“You see how much he wishes it,” said Germain to the girl. “Listen to
+me, Petit-Pierre,” he added. “I wish her to be your mother and to stay
+with you always. It is she who does not wish to. Try to make her grant
+you what she has denied me.”
+
+“Don't be afraid, father, I shall make her say yes. Little Marie does
+everything that I wish.”
+
+He walked away with the young girl. Germain stood alone, sadder and more
+irresolute than ever.
+
+
+
+
+XI -- The Belle of the Village
+
+AND after all, when he had brushed the dust of travel from his clothes
+and from his horse's harness, when he had mounted the gray, and when he
+had learned the road, he felt that there was no retreat and that he must
+forget that anxious night as though it had been a dangerous dream.
+
+He found Father Leonard seated on a trim bench of spinach-green. The six
+stone steps leading up to the door showed that the house had a cellar.
+The walls of the garden and of the hemp-field were plastered with lime
+and sand. It was a handsome house, and might almost have been mistaken
+for the dwelling of a bourgeois.
+
+Germain's future father-in-law came forward to meet him, and having
+plied him, for five minutes, with questions concerning his entire
+family, he added that conventional phrase with which one passer-by
+addresses another concerning the object of his journey: “So you are
+taking a little trip in this part of the country?”
+
+“I have come to see you,” replied the husbandman, “to give you this
+little present of game with my father's compliments, and to tell you
+from him that you ought to know with what intentions I come to your
+house.”
+
+“Oh, ho!” said Father Leonard, laughing and tapping his capacious
+stomach, “I see, I understand, I am with you, and,” he added with a
+wink, “you will not be the only one to pay your court, young man. There
+are three already in the house dancing attendance like you. I never turn
+anybody away, and I should find it hard to say yes or no to any of them,
+for they are all good matches. Yet, on account of Father Maurice and for
+the sake of the rich fields you till, I hope that it may be you. But my
+daughter is of age and mistress of her own affairs. She will do as
+she likes. Go in and introduce yourself. I hope that you will draw the
+prize.”
+
+“I beg your pardon,” answered Germain, amazed to find himself an extra
+when he had counted on being alone in the field. “I was not aware that
+your daughter was supplied already with suitors, and I did not come to
+quarrel over her.”
+
+“If you supposed that because you were slow in coming, my daughter would
+be left unprovided for, you were greatly mistaken, my son,” replied
+Father Leonard with unshaken good humor. “Catherine has the wherewithal
+to attract suitors, and her only difficulty lies in choosing. But come
+in; don't lose heart. The woman is worth, a struggle.”
+
+And pushing in Germain by the shoulders with boisterous gaiety, he
+called to his daughter as they entered the house:
+
+“So, Catherine, here is another!”
+
+This cordial but unmannerly method of introduction to the widow, in
+the presence of her other devotees, completed Germain's distress and
+embarrassment. He felt the awkwardness of his position, and stood for a
+few moments without daring to look upon the beauty and her court.
+
+The Widow Guérin had a good figure and did not lack freshness, but her
+expression and her dress displeased Germain the instant he saw her.
+She had a bold, self-satisfied look, and her cap, edged with three lace
+flounces, her silk apron, and her fichu of fine black lace were little
+in accord with the staid and sober widow he had pictured to himself.
+
+Her elaborate dress and forward manners inclined Germain to judge the
+widow old and ugly, although she was certainly not either. He thought
+that such finery and playful manners might well suit little Marie's
+years and wit, but that the widow's fun was labored and over bold, and
+that she wore her fine clothes in bad taste.
+
+The three suitors were seated at a table loaded with wines and meats
+which were spread out for their use throughout the Sunday morning; for
+Father Leonard liked to show off his wealth, and the widow was not sorry
+to display her pretty china and keep a table like a rich lady. Germain,
+simple and unsuspecting as he was, watched everything with a penetrating
+glance, and for the first time in his life he kept on the defensive when
+he drank. Father Leonard obliged him to sit down with his rivals, and
+taking a chair opposite he treated him with great politeness, and talked
+to him rather than to the others.
+
+The present of game, despite the breach Germain had made on his own
+account, was still plenteous enough to produce its effect. The widow
+did not look unaware of its presence, and the suitors cast disdainful
+glances in its direction.
+
+Germain felt ill at ease in this company, and did not eat heartily.
+Father Leonard poked fun at him.
+
+“You look very melancholy,” said he, “and you are ill-using your glass.
+You must not allow love to spoil your appetite, for a fasting lover can
+make no such pretty speeches as he whose ideas are brightened with a
+drop of wine.”
+
+Germain was mortified at being thought already in love, and the
+artificial manner of the widow, who kept lowering her eyes with a
+smile as a woman does who is sure of her calculations, made him long to
+protest against his pretended surrender; but fearing to appear uncivil,
+he smiled and held his peace.
+
+He thought the widow's beaus, three bumpkins. They must have been rich
+for her to admit of their pretensions. One was over forty, and fat as
+Father Leonard; another had lost an eye, and drank like a sot. The
+third was a young fellow, and nice-looking too; but he kept insisting on
+displaying his wit, and would say things so silly that they were
+painful to hear. Yet the widow laughed as though she admired all his
+foolishness, and made small proof of her good taste thereby. At first
+Germain thought her infatuated with him, but soon he perceived that
+he himself was especially encouraged, and that they wished him to make
+fresh advances. For this reason he felt an increasing stiffness and
+severity which he took no pains to conceal.
+
+The time came for mass, and they rose from table to go thither in
+company. It was necessary to walk as far as Mers, a good half-league
+away, and Germain was so tired that he longed to take a nap before they
+went; but he was not in the habit of missing mass, and he started with
+the others.
+
+The roads were filled with people, and the widow marched proudly along,
+escorted by her three suitors, taking an arm, first of one and then of
+another, and carrying her head high with an air of importance. She was
+eager to display the fourth to the eyes of the passers-by; but Germain
+felt so ridiculous to be dragged along in the train of a petticoat
+where all the world might see, that he kept at a respectable distance,
+chatting with Father Leonard, and succeeded in occupying his attention
+so well that they did not look at all as if they belonged to the party.
+
+
+
+
+XII -- The Master
+
+WHEN they reached the village, the widow halted to allow them to catch
+up. She was bent upon making her entry with all her train; but Germain,
+denying her this pleasure, deserted Father Leonard, and after conversing
+with several acquaintances, he entered the church by another door. The
+widow was vexed.
+
+When mass was over, she made her appearance in triumph on the lawn,
+where dancing was going on, and she began her dance with her three
+lovers in turn. Germain watched her and saw that she danced well, but
+with affectation.
+
+“So, you don't ask my daughter?” said Leonard, tapping him on the
+shoulder. “You are too easily frightened.”
+
+“I have not danced since I lost my wife,” answered the husbandman.
+
+“But now that you are looking for another, mourning 's over in heart as
+well as in clothes.”
+
+“That 's no reason, Father Leonard. Besides, I am too old and I don't
+care for dancing.”
+
+“Listen,” said Father Leonard, drawing him toward a retired corner,
+“when you entered my house you were vexed to see the place already
+besieged, and I see that you are very proud. But that is not reasonable,
+my boy. My daughter is used to a great deal of attention, particularly
+since she left off her mourning two years ago, and it is not her place
+to lead you on.”
+
+“Has your daughter been thinking of marrying for two years already
+without making her choice?” asked Germain.
+
+“She does n't wish to hurry, and she is right. Although she has lively
+manners, and although you may not think that she reflects a great deal,
+she is a woman of excellent common sense, and knows very well what she
+is about.”
+
+“It does not appear to me so,” said Germain ingenuously, “for she has
+three suitors in her train, and if she knew her own mind, there are two
+of them, at least, whom she would find superfluous and request to stay
+at home.”
+
+“Why, Germain, you don't understand at all. She does n't wish the old
+man, nor the blind man, nor the young man, I am quite certain; yet if
+she were to turn them off, people would think that she wished to remain
+a widow, and nobody else would come.”
+
+“Oh, I see. These three are used for a guide-post.”
+
+“As you like. What is the harm if they are satisfied?”
+
+“Every man to his taste,” said Germain.
+
+“I see that yours is different. Now supposing that you are chosen, then
+they would leave the coast clear.”
+
+“Yes, supposing! and meanwhile how much time should I have to whistle?”
+
+“That depends on your persuasive tongue, I suppose. Until now, my
+daughter has always thought that she would pass the best part of her
+life while she was being courted, and she is in no hurry to become the
+servant of one man when she can order so many others about. So she will
+please herself as long as the game amuses her; but if you please her
+more than the game, the game will cease. Only you must not lose courage.
+Come back every Sunday, dance with her, let her know that you are
+amongst her followers, and if she finds you more agreeable and better
+bred than the others, some fine day she will tell you so, no doubt.”
+
+“Excuse me, Father Leonard. Your daughter has the right to do as she
+pleases, and it is not my business to blame her. If I were in her place,
+I should do differently. I should be more frank, and should not waste
+the time of men who have, doubtless, something better to do than dancing
+attendance on a woman who makes fun of them. Still, if that is what
+amuses her and makes her happy, it is no affair of mine. Only there is
+one thing I must tell you which is a little embarrassing, since you have
+mistaken my intentions from the start, for you are so sure of what is
+not so, that you have given me no chance to explain. You must know,
+then, that I did not come here to ask for your daughter in marriage, but
+merely to buy a pair of oxen which you are going to take to market next
+week, and which my father-in-law thinks will suit him.”
+
+“I understand, Germain,” answered Leonard very calmly; “you changed your
+plans when you saw my daughter with her admirers. It is as you please.
+It seems that what attracts some people repels others, and you
+are perfectly welcome to withdraw, for you have not declared your
+intentions. If you wish seriously to buy my cattle, come and see them in
+the pasture, and whether we make a bargain or not, you will come back to
+dinner with us before you return.”
+
+“I don't wish to trouble you,” answered Germain. “Perhaps you have
+something to do here. I myself am tired of watching the dancing and
+standing idle. I will go to see your cattle, and I will soon join you at
+your house.”
+
+Then Germain made his escape, and walked away toward the meadows where
+Leonard had pointed out to him some of his cattle. It was true that
+Father Maurice intended to buy, and Germain thought that if he were
+to bring home a fine pair of oxen at a reasonable price, he might more
+easily receive a pardon for wilfully relinquishing the purpose of his
+journey. He walked rapidly, and soon found himself at some distance from
+Ormeaux. Then of a sudden, he felt a desire to kiss his son and to see
+little Marie once again, although he had lost all hope and even had
+chased away the thought that he might some day owe his happiness to her.
+Everything that he had heard and seen: this woman, flirtatious and vain;
+this father, at once shrewd and short-sighted, encouraging his daughter
+in habits of pride and untruth; this city luxury, which seemed to him a
+transgression against the dignity of country manners; this time wasted
+in foolish, empty words; this home so different from his own; and above
+all, that deep uneasiness which comes to a laborer of the fields when
+he leaves his accustomed toil: all the trouble and annoyance of the past
+few hours made Germain long to be with his child and with his little
+neighbor. Even had he not been in love, he would have sought her to
+divert his mind and raise his spirits to their wonted level.
+
+But he looked in vain over the neighboring meadows. He saw neither
+little Marie nor little Pierre, and yet it was the hour when shepherds
+are in the fields. There was a large flock in a pasture. He asked of
+a young boy who tended them whether the sheep belonged to the farm of
+Ormeaux.
+
+“Yes,” said the child.
+
+“Are you the shepherd? Do boys tend the flocks of the farm, amongst
+you?”
+
+“No, I am taking care of them to-day, because the shepherdess went away.
+She was ill.”
+
+“But have you not a new shepherdess, who came this morning?”
+
+“Yes, surely; but she, too, has gone already.”
+
+“What! gone? Did she not have a child with her?”
+
+“Yes, a little boy who cried. They both went away after they had been
+here two hours.”
+
+“Went away! Where?”
+
+“Where they came from, I suppose. I did n't ask them.”
+
+“But why did they go away?” asked Germain, growing more and more uneasy.
+
+“How the deuce do I know?”
+
+“Did they not agree about wages? Yet that must have been settled
+before.”
+
+“I can tell you nothing about it I saw them come and go, nothing more.”
+
+Germain walked toward the farm and questioned the farmer. Nobody could
+give him an explanation; but after speaking with the farmer, he felt
+sure that the girl had gone without saying a word, and had taken the
+weeping child with her.
+
+“Can they have been ill-treating my son?” cried Germain.
+
+“It was your son, then? How did he happen to be with the little girl?
+Where do you come from, and what is your name?”
+
+Germain, seeing that after the fashion of the country they were
+answering him with questions, stamped his foot impatiently, and asked to
+speak with the master.
+
+The master was away. Usually, he did not spend the whole day when he
+came to the farm. He was on horseback, and he had ridden off to one of
+his other farms.
+
+“But, honestly,” said Germain, growing very anxious, “can't you tell me
+why this girl left?”
+
+The farmer and his wife exchanged an odd smile. Then the former answered
+that he knew nothing, and that it was no business of his. All that
+Germain could learn was that both girl and child had started off toward
+Fourche. He rushed back to Fourche. The widow and her lovers were still
+away; so was Father Leonard. The maid told him that a girl and a child
+had come to ask for him, but that as she did not know them, she did not
+wish to let them in, and had advised them to go to Mers.
+
+“And why did you refuse to let them in?” said Germain, angrily. “People
+are very suspicious in this country, where nobody opens the door to a
+neighbor.”
+
+“But you see,” answered the maid, “in a house as rich as this, I
+must keep my eyes open. When the master is away, I am responsible for
+everything, and I cannot open the door to the first person that comes
+along.”
+
+“It is a bad custom,” said Germain, “and I had rather be poor than
+to live in constant fear like that. Good-by to you, young woman, and
+good-by to your vile country.”
+
+He made inquiries at the neighboring house. The shepherdess and child
+had been seen. As the boy had left Belair suddenly, carelessly dressed,
+with his blouse torn, and his little lambskin over his shoulders, and
+as little Marie was necessarily poorly clad at all times, they had been
+taken for beggars. People had offered them bread. The girl had accepted
+a crust for the child, who was hungry, then she had walked away with him
+very quickly, and had entered the forest.
+
+Germain thought a minute, then he asked whether the farmer of Ormeaux
+had not been at Fourche.
+
+“Yes,” they answered, “he passed on horseback a few seconds after the
+girl.”
+
+“Was he chasing her?”
+
+“Oh, so you understand?” answered the village publican, with a laugh.
+“Certain it is that he is the devil of a fellow for running after girls.
+But I don't believe that he caught her; though, after all, if he had
+seen her--”
+
+“That is enough, thank you!” And he flew rather than ran to Leonard's
+stable. Throwing the saddle on the gray's back, he leaped upon it, and
+set off at full gallop toward the wood of Chanteloube.
+
+His heart beat hard with fear and anger; the sweat poured down his
+forehead; he spurred the mare till the blood came, though the gray
+needed no pressing when she felt herself on the road to her stable.
+
+
+
+
+XIII -- The Old Woman
+
+GERMAIN came soon to the spot where he had passed the night on the
+border of the pool. The fire was smoking still. An old woman was
+gathering the remnants of the wood little Marie had piled there. Germain
+stopped to question her. She was deaf and mistook his inquiries.
+
+“Yes, my son,” said she, “this is the Devil's Pool. It is an evil spot,
+and you must not approach it without throwing in three stones with your
+left hand, while you cross yourself with the right. That drives away the
+spirits. Otherwise trouble comes to those who go around it.”
+
+“I am not asking about that,” said Germain, moving nearer her, and
+screaming at the top of his lungs. “Have you seen a girl and a child
+walking through the wood?”
+
+“Yes,” said the old woman, “a little child was drowned there.”
+
+Germain shook from head to foot; but happily the hag added:
+
+“That happened a long time ago. In memory of the accident they raised
+a handsome cross there. But one stormy night, the bad spirits threw it
+into the water. You can still see one end of it. If anybody were unlucky
+enough to pass the night here, he could never find his way out before
+daylight. He must walk and walk, and though he went two hundred leagues
+into the forest, he must always return to the same place.”
+
+The peasant's imagination was aroused in spite of himself, and the
+thought of the evils that must come in order that the old woman's
+assertions might be vindicated, took so firm a hold of his mind that he
+felt chilled through and through. Hopeless of obtaining more news, he
+remounted, and traversed the woods afresh, calling Pierre with all his
+might, whistling, cracking his whip, and snapping the branches that the
+whole forest might reëcho with the noise of his coming; then he
+listened for an answering voice, but he heard no sound save the cowbells
+scattered through the glades, and the wild cries of the swine as they
+fought over the acorns.
+
+At length Germain heard behind him the noise of a horse following in
+his traces, and a man of middle age, dark, sturdy, and dressed after the
+city fashion, called to him to stop. Germain had never seen the farmer
+of Ormeaux, but his instinctive rage told him at once that this was
+the man. He turned, and eyeing him from head to foot, waited for him to
+speak.
+
+“Have not you seen a young girl of fifteen or sixteen go by with a small
+boy?” asked the farmer, with an assumed air of indifference, although he
+was evidently ill at ease.
+
+“What do you want of her?” answered Germain, taking no pains to conceal
+his anger.
+
+“I might tell you that that is none of your business, my friend. But
+as I have no reasons for secrecy, I shall tell you that she is a
+shepherdess whom I engaged for a year, before I knew her. When I saw
+her, she looked too young and frail to work on the farm. I thanked her,
+but I wished to pay the expenses of her short journey, and while my back
+was turned, she went off in a huff. She was in such a hurry that she
+forgot even some of her belongings and her purse, which has certainly
+not much in it, probably but a few pennies; but since I was going in
+this direction, I hoped to meet her, and give her back the things which
+she left behind, as well as what I owe her.”
+
+Germain had too honest a heart not to pause at hearing a story which,
+however unlikely, was not impossible. He fastened his penetrating gaze
+on the farmer, who submitted to the examination with a plentiful supply
+of impudence or of good faith.
+
+“I wish to get at the bottom of this matter,” said Germain; “and,”
+ continued he, suppressing his indignation, “the girl lives in my
+village. I know her. She can't be far away. Let 's ride on together; we
+shall find her, no doubt.”
+
+“You are right,” said the farmer; “let's move on; but if we do not find
+her before we reach the end of this road, I shall give up, for I must
+turn off toward Ardentes.”
+
+“Oh, oh!” thought the peasant, “I shall not part with you, even if I
+have to follow you around the 'Devil's Pool for twenty-four hours.”
+
+“Stop,” said Germain suddenly, fixing his eyes on a clump of broom which
+waved in a peculiar manner. “Halloa! halloa! Petit Pierre, is that you,
+my child?”
+
+The boy recognized his father's voice, and came out from the broom
+leaping like a young deer; but when he saw Germain in company with the
+farmer, he stopped dismayed, and stood irresolute. “Come, my Pierre,
+come. It is I,” cried the husbandman, as he leaped from his horse and
+ran toward his boy to take him in his arms; “and where is little Marie?”
+
+“She is hiding there, because she is afraid of that dreadful black man,
+and so am I.”
+
+“You need n't be afraid. I am here. Marie, Marie. It is I.”
+
+Marie crept toward them, but the moment she saw Germain with the farmer
+close behind, she sprang forward, and throwing herself into his arms,
+clung to him as a daughter to her father.
+
+“Oh, my brave Germain!” she cried, “you will defend me. I am not afraid
+when you are near.”
+
+Germain shuddered. He looked at Marie. She was pale; her clothes were
+torn by the thorns which had scratched her as she passed, rushing toward
+the brake like a stag chased by the hunters. But neither shame nor
+despair were in her face.
+
+“Your master wishes to speak to you,” said he, his eyes fixed on her
+features.
+
+“My master!” she exclaimed fiercely; “that man is no master of mine, and
+he never shall be. You, Germain, you are my master. I want you to take
+me home with you. I will be your servant for nothing.”
+
+The farmer advanced, feigning impatience. “Little girl,” said he, “you
+left something behind at the farm, which I am bringing back to you.”
+
+“No, you are not, sir,” answered little Marie. “I did n't forget
+anything, and I have nothing to ask of you.”
+
+“Listen a moment,” returned the farmer. “It 's I who have something to
+tell you. Come with me. Don't be afraid. It's only a word or two.”
+
+“You may say them aloud. I have no secrets with you.”
+
+“At any rate, do take your money.”
+
+“My money? You owe me nothing, thank God!”
+
+“I suspected as much,” said Germain under his breath, “but I don't care,
+Marie. Listen to what he has to say to you, for--I am curious to know.
+You can tell me afterward. Go up to his horse. I shall not lose sight of
+you.”
+
+Marie took three steps toward the farmer. He bent over the pommel of his
+saddle, and lowering his voice he said:
+
+“Little girl, here is a bright golden louis for you. Don't say anything
+about it; do you hear? I shall say that I found you too frail to work
+on my farm. There will be no more talk about that. I shall be passing by
+your house one of these days; and if you have not said anything, I will
+give you something more; and then if you are more sensible, you have
+only to speak. I will take you home with me, or I will come at dusk and
+talk with you in the meadows. What present would you like me to bring
+you?”
+
+“Here, sir, is the present I have for you,” answered little Marie,
+aloud, as she threw the golden louis in his face with all her might. “I
+thank you heartily, and I beg that if you come anywhere near our house,
+you will be good enough to let me know. All the boys in the neighborhood
+will go out to welcome you, because, where I live, we are very fond of
+gentlemen who try to make love to poor girls. You shall see. They will
+be on the lookout for you.”
+
+“You lie with your dirty tongue,” cried the farmer, raising his stick
+with a dangerous air. “You wish to make people believe what is not so,
+but you shall never get a penny out of me. We know what kind of a girl
+you are.”
+
+Marie drew back, frightened, and Germain sprang to the bridle of the
+farmer's horse and shook it violently.
+
+“I understand now,” said he; “it is easy to see what is going on. Get
+down, my man, get down; I want to talk to you.”
+
+The farmer was not eager to take up the quarrel. Anxious to escape,
+he set spurs to his horse and tried to loosen the peasant's grasp by
+striking down his hands with a cane; but Germain dodged the blow, and
+seizing hold of his antagonist's leg, he unseated him and flung him
+to the earth. The farmer regained his feet, but although he defended
+himself vigorously, he was knocked down once more. Germain held him to
+the ground. Then he said:
+
+“Poor coward, I could thrash you if I wished. But I don't want to do
+you an injury, and, besides, no amount of punishment would help your
+conscience--but you shall not stir from this spot until you beg the
+girl's pardon, on your knees.”
+
+The farmer understood this sort of thing, and wished to take it all as a
+joke. He made believe that his offense was not serious, since it lay
+in words alone, and protested that he was perfectly willing to ask her
+pardon, provided he might kiss the girl afterward. Finally, he proposed
+that they go and drink a pint of wine at the nearest tavern, and so part
+good friends.
+
+“You are disgusting!” answered Germain, rubbing his victim's head in the
+dirt, “and I never wish to see your nasty face again. So blush, if you
+are able, and when you come to our village, you had better slink along
+Sneak's Alley.” *
+
+He picked up the farmer's holly-stick, broke it over his knee to show
+the strength of his wrists, and threw away the pieces with disgust Then
+giving one hand to his son and the other to little Marie, he walked
+away, still trembling with anger.
+
+* This is the road, which, diverging from the principal street at the
+entrance of villages, makes a circuit about them.. Persons who are in
+dread off receiving some well deserved insult, are supposed to take this
+route to escape attention.
+
+
+
+
+XIV -- The Return to the Farm
+
+AT the end of fifteen minutes they had left the heath behind them.
+They trotted along the highroad, and the gray whinnied at each familiar
+object. Petit-Pierre told his father as much as he could understand of
+what had passed.
+
+“When we reached the farm,” said he, “that man came to speak to my Marie
+in the fold where we had gone to see the pretty sheep. I had climbed
+into the manger to play, and that man did not see me. Then he said good
+morning to Marie, and he kissed her.”
+
+“You allowed him to kiss you, Marie?” said Germain, trembling with
+anger.
+
+“I thought it was a civility, a custom of the place to new-comers, just
+as at your farm the grandmother kisses the young girls who enter her
+service to show that she adopts them and will be a mother to them.”
+
+“And next,” went on little Pierre, who was proud to have an adventure to
+tell of, “_that man_ told you something wicked, which you have told me
+never to repeat and not even remember; so I forgot it right away. Still,
+if father wishes, I will tell him what it was--”
+
+“No, Pierre, I don't wish to hear, and I don't wish you ever to think of
+it again.”
+
+“Then I will forget it all over again,” replied the child. “Next, _that
+man_ seemed to be growing angry because Marie told him that she was
+going away. He told her he would give her whatever she wanted,--a
+hundred francs! And my Marie grew angry too. Then he came toward her as
+if he wished to hurt her. I was afraid, and I ran to Marie and cried.
+Then _that man_ said: 'What 's that? Where did that child come from? Put
+it out,' and he raised his cane to beat me. But my Marie prevented him,
+and she spoke to him this way: 'We will talk later, sir; now I must take
+this child back to Fourche, and then I shall return.' And as soon as
+he had left the fold, my Marie spoke to me this way: 'We must run, my
+Pierre; we must get away as quickly as we can, for this is a wicked
+man and he is trying to do us harm.' Then when we had gone back of the
+farm-houses, we crossed a little meadow, and we went to Fourche to find
+you. But you were not there, and they would n't let us wait. And then
+_that man_, riding his black horse, came behind us, and we ran on as
+fast as we could and hid in the woods. And then he followed us, and
+when we heard him coming, we hid again. And then, when he had passed,
+we began to run toward home, and then you came and found us, and that is
+how it all happened. I have n't forgotten anything, have I, my Marie?”
+
+“No, my Pierre, that is the whole truth. Now, Germain, you must be my
+witness, and tell everybody in the village that if I did not stay there
+it was not from want of courage and industry.”
+
+“And, Marie, I want to ask of you whether a man of twenty-eight is too
+old when there is a woman to be defended and an insult to be revenged.
+I should like to know whether Bastien or any other pretty boy, ten years
+better off than I, would not have been knocked to pieces by _that man_,
+as Petit-Pierre says. What do you think?”
+
+“I think, Germain, that you have done me a great service, and that I
+shall be grateful all my life.”
+
+“Is that all?”
+
+“Little father,” said the child, “I forgot to ask little Marie what I
+promised. I have not had time yet, but I will speak to her at home, and I
+will speak to my grandmother too.”
+
+The child's promise set Germain to thinking He must explain his conduct
+to his family and give his objections to the widow Guam, and all the
+while conceal the true reasons which had made him so judicious and so
+decided. When a man is proud and happy, it seems an easy task to thrust
+his happiness upon others, but to be repulsed on one side and blamed on
+the other is not a very pleasant position.
+
+Fortunately, Petit-Pierre was fast asleep when they reached the farm,
+and Germain put him to bed undisturbed. Then he began upon all sorts of
+explanations, Father Maurice, seated on a three-legged stool before the
+door, listened with gravity; and, although he was ill-content with
+the result of the journey, when Germain told him about the widow's
+systematic coquetry, and demanded of his father-in-law whether he had
+the time to go and pay his court fifty-two Sundays in the year at the
+risk of being dismissed in the end, the old man nodded his head in
+assent and answered: “You were not wrong, Germain; that could never be.”
+ And then, when Germain described how he had been obliged to bring back
+little Marie, with the utmost haste, in order to protect her from the
+insults or perhaps from the violence of a wicked master, Father Maurice
+nodded approvingly again and said: “You were not wrong, Germain; that
+was right.”
+
+When Germain had told his story, and had set forth all his reasons, the
+old farmer and his wife heaved deep, simultaneous sighs of resignation,
+and looked at each other. Then the head of the house rose and said:
+“God's will be done. Love can't be made to order.”
+
+“Come to supper, Germain,” said his mother-in-law. “It is unfortunate
+that this did not come to a better end, but, after all, it seems that
+God did not wish it. We must look elsewhere.”
+
+“Yes,” added the old man, “as my wife says, we must look elsewhere.”
+
+There was no more noise at the house, and on the morrow, when
+Petit-Pierre rose with the larks at dawn, he was no longer excited
+by the extraordinary events of the preceding days. Like other little
+peasants of his age, he became indifferent, forgot everything that had
+been running in his head, and thought only of playing with his brothers,
+and of pretending to drive the horses and oxen like a man. Germain
+plunged into his work, and tried to forget, too; but he became so
+absent-minded and so sad that everybody noticed it. He never spoke to
+little Marie, he never even looked at her, and yet had anybody asked him
+in what meadow she was, or by what road she had passed, there was not a
+moment in the day when he could not have answered if he would. He dared
+not ask his family to take her in at the farm during the winter, and yet
+he knew well how she must suffer from want. But she did not suffer; and
+Mother Guillette could not understand how her little store of wood never
+grew less, and how her shed was full in the morning, although she
+had left it almost empty at night It was the same with the wheat and
+potatoes. Somebody entered by the garret window, and emptied a sack on
+the floor without awaking a soul or leaving a trace of his coming. The
+widow was at once uneasy and delighted. She made her daughter promise to
+tell nobody, and said that were people to know of the miracle performed
+at her house they would take her for a witch. She felt confident that
+the devil had a share in it, but she was in no hurry to pick a quarrel
+with him by calling down the priest's exorcisms on the house. It would
+be time enough, she said, when Satan should come to demand her soul in
+return for his gifts.
+
+Little Marie understood the truth better, but she dared not speak to
+Germain, for fear of seeing him return to his dreams of marriage, and,
+before him, she pretended to perceive nothing.
+
+
+
+
+XV -- Mother Maurice
+
+ONE day, Mother Maurice was alone in the orchard with Germain, and spoke
+to him kindly:
+
+“My poor son, I believe you are not well. You don't eat as well as
+usual; you never laugh; you talk less and less. Perhaps one of us, or
+all of us, have hurt your feelings, without knowing and without wishing
+it.”
+
+“No, my mother,” answered Germain, “you have always been as kind to
+me as the mother who brought me into the world, and I should be very
+ungrateful if I were to complain of you or your husband, or of anybody
+in the household.”
+
+“Then, my child, it is the sorrow for your wife's death which comes back
+to you. Instead of growing lighter with time, your grief becomes worse,
+and as your father has said very wisely, it is absolutely necessary for
+you to marry again.”
+
+“Yes, my mother, that is my opinion, but the women whom you advised
+me to ask don't suit me. Whenever I see them, instead of forgetting my
+Catherine, I think of her all the more.”
+
+“Apparently that 's because we have n't been able to understand your
+taste. You must help us by telling us the truth. There must be a woman
+somewhere who is made for you, for God does n't make anybody without
+placing his happiness in somebody else. So if you know where to find
+this woman whom you need, take her, and be she pretty or ugly, young or
+old, rich or poor, we have made up our minds, my husband and I, to give
+our consent, for we are tired of seeing you so sad, and we can never be
+happy while you are sorrowful.”
+
+“My mother, you are as kind as the kind Lord, and so is my father,”
+ answered Germain; “but your compassion brings small help to my troubles,
+for the girl I love does n't care for me.”
+
+“She is too young, then? It's foolish for you to love a young girl.”
+
+“Yes, mother dear, I have been foolish enough to love a young girl, and
+it 's my fault. I do my best to stop thinking of it, but, working or
+sleeping, at mass or in bed, with my children or with you, I can think
+of nothing else.”
+
+“Then it 's like a fate cast over you, Germain. There 's but one remedy,
+and it is that this girl must change her mind and listen to you. It's my
+duty to look into this, and see whether it 's practicable. Tell me where
+she lives, and what 's her name.”
+
+“Oh, my dear mother, I dare not,” said Germain, “because you will make
+fun of me.”
+
+“I shall not make fun of you, Germain, because you are in trouble, and I
+don't wish to make it harder for you. Is it Fanchette?”
+
+“No, mother, of course not.”
+
+“Or Rosette?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Tell me, then, for I shall never finish if I must name every girl in
+the country-side.”
+
+Germain bowed his head, and could not bring himself to answer.
+
+“Very good,” said Mother Maurice, “I shall let you alone for to-day;
+to-morrow, perhaps, you will be more confidential with me, or possibly
+your sister-in-law will question you more cleverly.” And she picked up
+her basket to go and spread her linen on the bushes.
+
+Germain acted like children who make up their minds when they see that
+they are no longer attracting attention. He followed his mother, and at
+length, trembling, he named Marie of Guillette.
+
+Great was the surprise of Mother Maurice. Marie was the last person she
+would have dreamed of. But she had the delicacy not to cry out, and made
+her comments to herself. Then seeing that her silence hurt Germain, she
+stretched out her basket toward him and said:
+
+“Is there any reason for not helping me at my work. Carry this load, and
+come and talk with me. Have you reflected well, Germain? Are you fully
+decided?”
+
+“Alas, dear mother, you must n't speak in that way. I should be decided
+if I had a chance of success, but as I could never be heard, I have only
+made up my mind to cure myself, if I can.”
+
+“And if you can't.”
+
+“There is an end to everything, Mother Maurice: when the horse is laden
+too heavily, he falls, and when the cow has nothing to eat, she dies.”
+
+“Do you mean to say that you will die, if you do not succeed. God grant
+not, Germain. I don't like to hear a man like you talk of those things;
+for what he says, he thinks. You are very brave, and weakness
+is dangerous for strong men. Take heart; I can't conceive that a
+poverty-stricken girl, whom you have honored so much as to ask her to
+marry you, will refuse you.”
+
+“Yet it 's the truth: she does refuse me.”
+
+“And what reasons does she give you?”
+
+“That you have always been kind to her, and that her family owes a great
+deal to yours, and that she does n't wish to displease you by turning me
+away from a rich marriage.”
+
+“If she says that, she proves her good sense, and shows what an honest
+girl she is. But, Germain, she does n't cure you; for of course she
+tells you that she loves you and would marry you if we were willing?”
+
+“That's the worst part of all. She says that her heart can never be
+mine.”
+
+“If she says what she does n't think in order to keep you at a safer
+distance, the child deserves our love, and we should pass over her youth
+on account of her great good sense.”
+
+“Yes,” said Germain, struck by a hope he had never held before; “that
+would be very wise and right of her! But if she is so sensible, I am
+sure it is because I displease her.”
+
+“Germain,” said Mother Maurice, “you must promise me not to worry for a
+whole week. Keep from tormenting yourself, eat, sleep, and be as gay as
+you used to be. For my part, I 'll speak to my husband, and if I gain
+his consent, you shall know the girl's real feelings toward you.”
+
+Germain promised, and the week passed without a single word in private
+from Father Maurice, who seemed to suspect nothing. The husbandman did
+his best to look calm, but he grew ever paler and more troubled.
+
+
+
+
+XVI -- Little Marie
+
+AT length, on Sunday morning, when mass was over, his mother-in-law
+asked Germain what encouragement he had had from his sweetheart since
+the conversation in the orchard.
+
+“Why, none at all,” answered he; “I have n't spoken to her.”
+
+“How can you expect to win her if you don't speak to her?”
+
+“I have spoken to her but once,” replied Germain. “That was when we were
+together at Fourche, and since then I have n't said a single word. Her
+refusal gave me so much pain that I had rather not hear her begin again
+to tell me that she does n't love me.”
+
+“But, my son, you must speak to her now; your father gives his approval.
+So make up your mind. I tell you to do it, and, if need be, I shall
+order you to do it, for you can't rest in this uncertainty.”
+
+Germain obeyed. He reached Mother Guillette's house, hanging his
+head with a hopeless air. Little Marie sat alone before the hearth so
+thoughtful that she did not hear Germain's step. When she saw him before
+her, she started from her chair in surprise and grew very red.
+
+“Little Marie,” said he, sitting down near her, “I come to trouble you
+and to give you pain. I know it very well, but the man and his wife at
+home [it was thus after the peasant fashion that he designated the heads
+of the house] wish me to speak to you, and beg you to marry me. You
+don't care for me. I am prepared for it.”
+
+“Germain,” answered little Marie, “are you sure that you love me?”
+
+“It pains you, I know, but it is n't my fault. If you could change your
+mind, I should be so very happy, and certain it is that I don't deserve
+it. Look at me, Marie; am I very terrible?”
+
+“No, Germain,” she answered, with a smile, “you are better looking than
+I.”
+
+“Don't make fun of me; look at me charitably; as yet, I have never lost
+a single hair nor a single tooth. My eyes tell you plainly how much I
+love you. Look straight into my eyes. It is written there, and every
+girl knows how to read that writing.”
+
+Marie looked into Germain's eyes with playful boldness; then of a sudden
+she turned away her head and trembled.
+
+“Good God,” exclaimed Germain, “I make you afraid; you look at me as
+though I were the farmer of Ormeaux. Don't be afraid of me, please
+don't; that hurts me too much. I shall not say any bad words to you, I
+shall not kiss you if you will not have me, and when you wish me to go
+away, you have only to show me the door. Must I go in order to stop your
+trembling?”
+
+Marie held out her hand toward the husbandman, but without turning her
+head, which was bent on the fireplace, and without saying a word.
+
+“I understand,” said Germain. “You pity me, for you are kind; you are
+sorry to make me unhappy; but you cant love me.”
+
+“Why do you say these things to me, Germain?” answered little Marie,
+after a pause. “Do you wish to make me cry?”
+
+“Poor little girl, you have a kind heart, I know; but you don't love me,
+and you are hiding your face for fear of letting me see your dislike and
+your repugnance. And I? I dare not even clasp your hand! In the forest,
+when my boy was asleep and you were sleeping too, I almost kissed you
+very gently. But I would have died of shame rather than ask it of you,
+and that night I suffered as a man burning over a slow fire. Since
+that time I have dreamed of you every night. Ah! how I have kissed you,
+Marie! Yet during all that time you have slept without a dream. And now,
+do you know what I think? I think that were you to turn and look at me
+with the eyes I have for you, and were you to move your face close to
+mine, I believe I should fall dead for joy. And you, you think that if
+such a thing were to happen, you would die of anger and shame!”
+
+Germain spoke as in a dream, not hearing the words he said. Little Marie
+was trembling all the time, but he was shaking yet more and did not
+notice it. Of a sudden, she turned. Her eyes were filled with tears, and
+she looked at him reproachfully. The poor husbandman thought that this
+was the last blow, and without waiting for his sentence, he rose to go,
+but the girl stopped him, and throwing both her arms about him, she hid
+her face in his breast.
+
+“Oh, Germain,” she sobbed, “did n't you feel that I loved you?”
+
+Then Germain had gone mad, if his son, who came galloping into the
+cottage on a stick, with his little sister on the crupper, scourging the
+imaginary steed with a willow branch, had not brought him to his senses.
+He lifted the boy and placed him in the girl's arms.
+
+“See,” said he, “by loving me, you have made more than one person
+happy.”
+
+
+
+
+
+APPENDIX
+
+I -- A Country Wedding
+
+HERE ends the history of Germain's marriage as he told it to me himself,
+good husbandman that he is. I ask your forgiveness, kind reader, that I
+know not how to translate it better; for it is a real translation that
+is needed by this old-fashioned and artless language of the peasants
+of the country “that I sing,” as they used to say. These people speak
+French that is too true for us, and since Rabelais and Montaigne, the
+advance of the language has lost for us many of its old riches. Thus
+it is with every advance, and we must make the best of it. Yet it is
+a pleasure still to hear those picturesque idioms used in the old
+districts in the center of France; all the more because it is the
+genuine expression of the laughing, quiet, and delightfully talkative
+character of the people who make use of it. Touraine has preserved
+a certain precious number of patriarchal phrases. But Touraine was
+civilized greatly during the Renaissance, and since its decline she
+is filled with fine houses and highroads, with foreigners and traffic.
+Berry remained as she was, and I think that after Brittany and a few
+provinces in the far south of France, it is the best preserved district
+to be found at the present day. Some of the costumes are so strange and
+so curious that I hope to amuse you a few minutes more, kind reader,
+if you will allow me to describe to you in detail a country
+wedding--Germain's, for example--at which I had the pleasure of
+assisting several years ago.
+
+For, alas! everything passes. During my life alone, more change has
+taken place in the ideas and in the customs of my village than had
+been seen in the centuries before the Revolution. Already half the
+ceremonies, Celtic, Pagan, or of the Middle Ages, that in my childhood I
+have seen in their full vigor, have disappeared. In a year or two more,
+perhaps, the railroads will lay their level tracks across our deep
+valleys, and will carry away, with the swiftness of lightning, all our
+old traditions and our wonderful legends.
+
+It was in winter about the carnival season, the time of year when, in
+our country, it is fitting and proper to have weddings. In summer the
+time can hardly be spared, and the work of the farm cannot suffer three
+days' delay, not to speak of the additional days impaired to a greater
+or to a less degree by the moral and physical drunkenness which
+follows a gala-day. I was seated beneath the great mantelpiece of the
+old-fashioned kitchen fireplace when shots of pistols, barking of dogs,
+and the piercing notes of the bagpipe told me that the bridal pair were
+approaching. Very soon Father and Mother Maurice, Germain, and little
+Marie, followed by Jacques and his wife, the closer relatives, and the
+godfathers and godmothers of the bride and groom, all made their entry
+into the yard.
+
+Little Marie had not yet received her wedding-gifts,--favors, as they
+call them,--and was dressed in the best of her simple clothes, a dress
+of dark, heavy cloth, a white fichu with great spots of brilliant color,
+an apron of carnation,--an Indian red much in vogue at the time, but
+despised nowadays,--a cap of very white muslin after that pattern,
+happily still preserved, which calls to mind the head-dress of Anne
+Boleyn and of Agnes Sorrel. She was fresh and laughing, but not at
+all vain, though she had good reason to be so. Beside her was Germain,
+serious and tender, like young Jacob greeting Rebecca at the wells of
+Laban. Another girl would have assumed an important air and struck an
+attitude of triumph, for in every rank it is something to be married
+for a fair face alone. Yet the girl's eyes were moist and shone with
+tenderness. It was plain that she was deep in love and had no time to
+think of the opinions of others. Her little air of determination was not
+absent, but everything about her denoted frankness and good-will. There
+was nothing impertinent in her success, nothing selfish in her sense
+of power. Never have I seen so lovely a bride, when she answered with
+frankness her young friends who asked if she were happy:
+
+“Surely I have nothing to complain of the good Lord.”
+
+Father Maurice was spokesman. He came forward to pay his compliments,
+and give the customary invitations. First he fastened to the mantelpiece
+a branch of laurel decked out with ribbons; this is known as the
+_writ_--that is to say, the letter of announcement. Next he gave
+to every guest a tiny cross made of a bit of blue ribbon sewn to a
+transverse bit of pink ribbon--pink for the bride, blue for the groom.
+The guests of both sexes were expected to keep this badge to adorn their
+caps or their button-holes on the wedding-day. This is the letter of
+invitation, the admission ticket.
+
+Then Father Maurice paid his congratulations. He invited the head of the
+house and all his _company_,--that is to say, all his children, all his
+friends, and all his servants,--to the benediction, _to the feast, to
+the sports, to the dance, and to everything that follows_. He did not
+fail to say, “I have come _to do you the honor of inviting you_”; a very
+right manner of speech, even though it appears to us to convey the wrong
+meaning, for it expresses the idea of doing honor to those who seem
+worthy of it.
+
+Despite the generosity of the invitation carried from house to house
+throughout the parish, politeness, which is very cautious amongst
+peasants, demands that only two persons from each family take advantage
+of it--one of the heads of the house, and one from the number of their
+children.
+
+After the invitations were made, the betrothed couple and their families
+took dinner together at the farm.
+
+Little Marie kept her three sheep on the common, and Germain tilled the
+soil as though nothing had happened.
+
+About two in the afternoon before the day set for the wedding, the music
+came. The music means the players of the bagpipe and hurdy-gurdy,
+their instruments decorated with long streaming ribbons, playing an
+appropriate march to a measure which would have been rather slow for
+feet foreign to the soil, but admirably adapted to the heavy ground and
+hilly roads of the country.
+
+Pistol-shots, fired by the young people and the children, announced
+the beginning of the wedding ceremonies. Little by little the guests
+assembled, and danced on the grass-plot before the house in order to
+enter into the spirit of the occasion. When evening was come they began
+strange preparations; they divided into two bands, and when night had
+settled down they proceeded to the ceremony of the _favors_.
+
+All this passed at the dwelling of the bride, Mother Guillette's
+cottage. Mother Guillette took with her her daughter, a dozen pretty
+shepherdesses, friends and relatives of her daughter, two or three
+respectable housewives, talkative neighbors, quick of wit and strict
+guardians of ancient customs. Next she chose a dozen stout fellows,
+her relatives and friends; and last of all the parish hemp-dresser, a
+garrulous old man, and as good a talker as ever there was.
+
+The part which, in Brittany, is played by the bazvalon, the village
+tailor, is taken in our part of the country by the hemp-dresser and the
+wool-carder, two professions which are unusually combined in one. He
+is present at all ceremonies, sad or gay, for he is very learned and
+a fluent talker, and on these occasions he must always figure as
+spokesman, in order to fulfil with exactitude certain formalities used
+from time immemorial. Traveling occupations, which bring a man into the
+midst of other families, without allowing him to shut himself up within
+his own, are well fitted to make him talker, wit, storyteller, and
+singer.
+
+The hemp-dresser is peculiarly skeptical. He and another village
+functionary, of whom we have spoken before, the grave-digger, are always
+the daring spirits of the neighborhood. They have talked so much about
+ghosts, and they know so well all the tricks of which these malicious
+spirits are capable, that they fear them scarcely at all. It is
+especially at night that all of them--grave-diggers, hemp-dressers, and
+ghosts--do their work. It is also at night when the hemp-dresser tells
+his melancholy stories. Permit me to make a digression.
+
+When the hemp has reached the right stage, that is to say, when it has
+been steeped sufficiently in running water, and half dried on the bank,
+it is brought into the yard and arranged in little upright sheaves,
+which, with their stalks divided at the base, and their heads bound in
+balls, bear in the dusk some small resemblance to a long procession
+of little white phantoms, standing on their slender legs, and moving
+noiselessly along the wall.
+
+It is at the end of September, when the nights are still warm, that they
+begin to beat it by the pale light of the moon. By day the hemp has been
+heated in the oven; at night they take it out to beat it while it is
+still hot. For this they use a kind of horse surmounted by a wooden
+lever which falls into grooves and breaks the plant without cutting it.
+It is then that you hear in the night that sudden, sharp noise of three
+blows in quick succession. Then there is silence; it is the movement of
+the arm drawing out the handful of hemp to break it in a fresh spot. The
+three blows begin again; the other arm works the lever, and thus it goes
+on until the moon is hidden by the early streaks of dawn. As the work
+continues but a few days in the year, the dogs are not accustomed to it,
+and yelp their plaintive howls toward every point of the horizon.
+
+It is the time of unwonted and mysterious sounds in the country. The
+migrating cranes fly so high that by day they are scarcely visible. By
+night they are only heard, and their hoarse wailing voices, lost in the
+clouds, sound like the parting cry of souls in torment, striving to find
+the road to heaven, yet forced by an unconquerable fate to wander near
+the earth about the haunts of men; for these errant birds have strange
+uncertainties, and many a mysterious anxiety in the course of their airy
+flight. Sometimes they lose the wind when the capricious gusts battle,
+or come and go in the upper regions. When this confusion comes by day,
+you can see the leader of the file fluttering aimlessly in the air, then
+turn about and take his place at the tail of the triangular phalanx,
+while a skilful manoeuver of his companions forms them soon in good
+order behind him. Often, after vain efforts, the exhausted leader
+relinquishes the guidance of the caravan; another comes forward, tries
+in his turn, and yields his place to a third, who finds the breeze, and
+continues the march in triumph. But what cries, what reproaches, what
+protests, what wild curses or anxious questionings are exchanged in an
+unknown tongue amongst these winged pilgrims!
+
+Sometimes, in the resonant night, you can hear these sinister noises
+whirling for a long time above the housetops, and as you can see
+nothing, you feel, despite your efforts, a kind of dread and kindred
+discomfort, until the sobbing multitude is lost in boundless space.
+
+There are other noises too which belong to this time of year, and which
+sound usually in the orchards. Gathering the fruit is not yet over, and
+the thousand unaccustomed cracklings make the tree seem alive. A branch
+groans as it bends beneath a burden which has reached, of a sudden,
+the last stage of growth; or perhaps an apple breaks from the twig, and
+falls on the damp earth at your feet with a dull sound. Then you hear
+rush by, brushing the branches and the grass, a creature you cannot
+see; it is the peasant's dog, that prowling and uneasy rover, at once
+impudent and cowardly, always wandering, never sleeping, ever seeking
+you know not what, spying upon you, hiding in the brush, and taking
+flight at the sound of a falling apple, which he thinks a stone that you
+are throwing at him.
+
+It is during those nights, nights misty and gray, that the hemp-dresser
+tells his weird stories of will-o'-the-wisps and milk-white hares, of
+souls in torment and wizards changed to wolves, of witches' vigils at
+the cross-roads, and screech-owls, prophetesses of the graveyard. I
+remember passing the early hours of such a night while the hemp-dressing
+was going on, and the pitiless strokes, interrupting the dresser's story
+at its most awful place, sent icy shivers through our veins. And often
+too the good man continued his story as he worked, and four or five
+words were lost, terrible words, no doubt, which we dared not make him
+repeat, and whose omission added a mystery yet more fearful to the
+dark mysteries of the story which had gone before. It was in vain the
+servants warned us that it was too late to stay without doors, and that
+bedtime had sounded for us long since; they too were dying to hear more;
+and then with what terror we crossed the hamlet on our way home! How
+deep did the church porch appear to us, and how thick and black the
+shadows of the old trees! The graveyard we dared not see; we shut our
+eyes tight as we passed it.
+
+But no more than the sacristan is the hemp-dresser gifted solely
+with the desire of frightening; he loves to make people laugh; he is
+sarcastic and sentimental at need, when love and marriage are to be
+sung. It is he who collects and keeps stored in his memory the oldest
+songs, and who transmits them to posterity. And so it is he who acts at
+weddings the part we shall see him play at the presentation of little
+Marie's favors.
+
+
+
+
+II -- The Wedding Favors
+
+WHEN all the guests were met together in the house, the doors and
+windows were closed with the utmost care; even the garret window was
+barricaded; boards and benches, logs and tables were placed behind every
+entrance, just as if the inhabitants were making ready to sustain a
+siege; and within these fortifications solemn stillness prevailed until
+at a distance were heard songs and laughter and the sounds of rustic
+music. It was the band of the bridegroom, Germain at the head, followed
+by his most trusty companions and by the grave-digger, relatives,
+friends, and servants, who formed a compact and merry train. Meanwhile,
+as they came nearer the house they slackened their pace, held a council
+of war, and became silent. The girls, shut up in the house, had arranged
+little loop-holes at the windows by which they could see the enemy
+approach and deploy in battle array. A fine, cold rain was falling,
+which added zest to the situation, while a great tire blazed on the
+hearth within. Marie wished to cut short the inevitable slowness of this
+well-ordered siege; she had no desire to see her lover catch cold,
+but not being in authority she had to take an ostensible share in the
+mischievous cruelty of her companions.
+
+When the two armies met, a discharge of firearms on the part of the
+besiegers set all the dogs in the neighborhood to barking. Those within
+the house dashed at the door with loud yelps, thinking that the attack
+was in earnest, and the children, little reassured by the efforts of
+their mothers, began to weep and to tremble. The whole scene was played
+so well that a stranger would have been deceived, and would have made
+his preparations to tight a band of brigands. Then the grave-digger,
+bard and orator of the groom, took his stand before the door, and with
+a rueful voice, exchanged the following dialogue with the hemp-dresser,
+who was stationed above the same door:
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “Ah, my good people, my fellow-townsmen, for the
+love of Heaven, open the door.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “Who are you, and what right have you to call us
+your dear fellow-townsmen? We don't know you.”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “We are worthy folk in great distress. Don't be
+afraid of us, my friends. Extend us your hospitality. Sleet is falling;
+our poor feet are frozen, and our journey home has been so long that our
+sabots are split.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “If your sabots are split, you can look on
+the ground; you will find very soon a sprig of willow to make some
+_arcelets_ [small curved blades of iron which are fastened on split
+sabots to hold them together].”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “Willow _arcelets_ are scarcely strong enough. You
+are making fun of us, good people, and you would do better to open your
+doors. We can see a splendid fire blazing in your dwelling. The spit
+must be turning, and we can make merry with you, heart and belly. So
+open your doors to poor pilgrims who will die on the threshold if you
+are not merciful.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “Ah ha! so you are pilgrims? You never told us that.
+And what pilgrimage do you come from, may I ask?”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “We shall tell you that when you open the door, for
+we come from so far that you would never believe it.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “Open the door to you? I rather think not. We can't
+trust you. Tell us, is it from Saint Sylvain of Pouligny that you come?”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “We have been at Saint Sylvain of Pouligny, but we
+have been farther still.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “Then you have been as far as Saint Solange?”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “At Saint Solange we have been, sure enough, but we
+have been farther yet.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “You are lying. You have never been as far as Saint
+Solange.”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “We have been farther, for now we are come from
+Saint Jacques of Compostelle.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “What absurdity are you telling us? We don't know
+that parish. We can easily see that you are bad people, brigands,
+nobodies, and liars. Go away with your nonsense. We are on our guard.
+You can't come in.”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “Ah, my poor fellow, take pity on us. We are not
+pilgrims, as you have guessed, but we are unlucky poachers pursued by
+the keepers. Even the police are after us, and if you don't hide us in
+your hay-loft, we shall be taken and led off to prison.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “And who will prove you are what you say you
+are, this time? For you have told us one lie already that you can't
+maintain.”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “If you will let us in, we shall show you a pretty
+piece of game we have killed.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “Show it right away, for we have our suspicions.”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “All right, open the door or a window to let us pass
+the creature in.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “Oh, no, not quite so foolish. I am looking at you
+through a little chink, and I can see neither hunters nor game amongst
+you.”
+
+Here an ox-driver, a thick-set fellow of herculean strength, detached
+himself from a group where he had stood unperceived, and raised toward
+the window a plucked goose, spitted on a strong iron bar decorated with
+tufts of straw and ribbons.
+
+“Ho, ho!” cried the hemp-dresser, after cautiously extending an arm to
+feel the roast. “That is n't a quail nor a partridge; it is n't a hare
+nor a rabbit; it 's something like a goose or a turkey. Upon my word,
+you 're clever hunters, and that game did n't make you run very far.
+Move on, you rogues; we know all your lies, and you had best go home and
+cook your supper. You are not going to eat ours.”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “O Heavens, where can we go to cook our game? It is
+very little for so many as we, and, besides, we have neither place nor
+fire. At this time every door is closed, and every soul asleep. You are
+the only people who are celebrating a wedding at home, and you must he
+hardhearted indeed to let us freeze outside. Once again, good people,
+open the door; we shall not cost you anything. You can see that we bring
+our own meat; only a little room at your hearth, a little blaze to cook
+with, and we shall go on our way rejoicing.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “Do you suppose that we have too much room here, and
+that wood is bought tor nothing?”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “We have here a small bundle of hay to make the
+fire. We shall be satisfied with that; only grant us leave to place the
+spit across your fireplace.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “That will never do. We are disgusted, and don't
+pity you at all. It is my opinion that you are drunk, that you need
+nothing, and that you only wish to come in and steal away our fire and
+our daughters.”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “Since you won't listen to reason, we shall make our
+way in by force.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “Try, if you want; we are shut in well enough to
+have no fear of you, and since you are impudent fellows, we shall not
+answer you again.”
+
+Thereupon the hemp-dresser shut the garret window with a bang, and came
+down into the room below by a step-ladder. Then he took the bride by
+the hand, the young people of both sexes followed, and they all began to
+sing and chatter merrily, while the matrons sang in piercing voices, and
+shrieked with laughter in derision and bravado at those without who were
+attempting an attack.
+
+The besiegers, on their side, made a great hubbub. They discharged their
+pistols at the doors, made the dogs growl, whacked the walls, shook
+the blinds, and uttered frightful shrieks. In short, there was such a
+pandemonium that nobody could hear, and such a cloud of dust that nobody
+could see.
+
+And yet this attack was all a sham. The time had not come for breaking
+through the etiquette. If, in prowling about, anybody were to find an
+unguarded aperture, or any opening whatsoever, he might try to slip in
+unobserved, and then, if the carrier of the spit succeeded in placing
+his roast before the fire, and thus prove the capture of the hearth, the
+comedy was over and the bridegroom had conquered.
+
+The entrances of the house, however, were not numerous enough for any to
+be neglected in the customary precautions, and nobody might use violence
+before the moment fixed for the struggle.
+
+When they were weary of dancing and screams, the hemp-dresser began
+to think of capitulation. He went up to his window, opened it with
+precaution, and greeted the baffled assailants with a burst of laughter.
+
+“Well, my boys,” said he, “you look very sheep-faced. You thought there
+was nothing easier than to come in, and you see that our defense is
+good. But we are beginning to have pity on you, if you will submit and
+accept our conditions.”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “Speak, good people. Tell us what we must do to
+approach your hearth.”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: “You must sing, my friends; but sing a song we don't
+know,--one that we can't answer by a better.”
+
+“That 's not hard to do,” answered the grave-digger, and he thundered in
+a powerful voice: “'Six months ago, 'twas in the spring...'”
+
+“'I wandered through the sprouting grass,'” answered the hemp-dresser
+in a slightly hoarse but terrible voice. “You must be jesting, my poor
+friends, singing us such time-worn songs. You see very well that we can
+stop you at the first word.”
+
+     “'She was a prince's daughter...'”
+
+“'Right gladly would she wed,'” answered the hemp-dresser. “Come, move
+on to the next; we know that a little too well.”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “How do you like this one?--
+
+     “'As I was journeying home from Nantes.'”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_:
+
+     “'Weary, oh, weary, was I, was I.'”
+
+“That dates from my grandmother's time. Let's have another.”
+
+ _The Grave-digger_:
+
+     “'One day I went a-walking...'”
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_:
+
+     “'Along a lovely wood!'”
+
+“That one is too stupid! Our little children would n't take the trouble
+to answer you. What! Are these all you know?”
+
+_The Grave-digger_: “Oh, we shall sing you so many that you will never
+be able to hear them all.”
+
+In this way a full hour passed. As the two antagonists were champions
+of the country round in the matter of songs, and as their store seemed
+inexhaustible, the contest might last all night with ease, all the
+more because the hemp-dresser, with a touch of malice, allowed several
+ballads of ten, twenty, or thirty couplets to be sung through, feigning
+by his silence to admit his defeat. Then the bridegroom's camp rejoiced
+and sang aloud in chorus, and thought that this time the foe was
+worsted; but at the first line of the last couplet, they heard the
+hoarse croaking of the old hemp-dresser bellow forth the second rhyme.
+Then he cried:
+
+“You need not tire yourselves by singing such a long one, my
+children--we know that one to our finger-tips.”
+
+Once or twice, however, the hemp-dresser made a wry face, contracted his
+brow, and turned toward the expectant housewives with a baffled air.
+The grave-digger was singing something so old that his adversary had
+forgotten it, or perhaps had never even heard it; but instantly the good
+gossips chanted the victorious refrain through their noses with voices
+shrill as a sea-mew's, and the grave-digger, forced to surrender, went
+on to fresh attempts.
+
+It would have taken too long to wait for a decision of the victory. The
+bride's party declared itself disposed to be merciful, provided that the
+bride were given a present worthy of her.
+
+Then began the song of the favors to a tune solemn as a church chant.
+
+The men without sang together in bass voices:
+
+     “'Open the door, true love,
+     Open the door; I have presents for you, love,
+     Oh, say not adieu, love.'”
+
+To this the women answered from within in falsetto, with mournful
+voices:
+
+     “'My father is sorry, my mother is sad,
+     And I am a maiden too kind by far
+     At such an hour my gate to unbar.'”
+
+The men took up the first verse as far as the fourth line and modified
+it thus:
+
+     “'And a handkerchief new, love.'”
+
+But, on behalf of the bride, the women answered in the same way as at
+first.
+
+For twenty couplets, at least, the men enumerated all the
+wedding-presents, always mentioning something new in the last line: a
+handsome apron, pretty ribbons, a cloth dress, laces, a golden cross,
+and even a hundred pins to complete the modest list of wedding-presents.
+The refusal of the women could not be shaken, but at length the men
+decided to speak of
+
+     “A good husband, too, love.”
+
+And the women answered, turning toward the bride and singing in unison
+with the men:
+
+     “'Open the door, true love,
+     Open the door;
+     Here's a sweetheart for you, love,
+     Pray let us enter, too, love.'”
+
+
+
+
+III -- The Wedding
+
+IMMEDIATELY the hemp-dresser drew back the wooden bolt which barred the
+door within. At this time it was still the only fastening known in most
+of the dwellings of our hamlet. The groom's band burst into the bride's
+house, but not without a struggle; for the young men quartered within,
+and even the old hemp-dresser and the gossips, made it their duty to
+defend the hearth. The spit-bearer, upheld by his supporters, had to
+plant the roast before the fireplace. It was a regular battle, although
+people abstained from striking, and there was no anger shown in this
+struggle. But everybody was pushing and shoving so hard, and there was
+so much playful pride in this display of muscular strength, that the
+results might well have been serious, although they did not appear so
+across the laughs and songs. The poor old hemp-dresser, fighting like a
+lion, was pinned to the wall and squeezed by the crowd until his breath
+almost left him. More than one champion was upset and trodden under foot
+involuntarily; more than one hand, jammed against the spit, was covered
+with blood. These games are dangerous, and latterly the accidents have
+been so severe that our peasants have determined to allow the ceremony
+of the favors to fall into disuse; I believe we saw the last at the
+marriage of François Meillant, although there was no real struggle on
+that occasion.
+
+The battle was earnest enough, however, at Germain's wedding. It was
+a point of honor on one side to invade, on the other to defend, Mother
+Guillette's hearth. The great spit was twisted like a screw beneath
+the strong fists which fought for it A pistol-shot set fire to a small
+quantity of hemp arranged in sheaves and laid on a wicker shelf near
+the ceiling. This incident created a diversion, and while some of the
+company crowded about to extinguish the sparks, the grave-digger, who
+had climbed unbeknown into the garret, came down the chimney and seized
+the spit, at the very moment when the ox-driver, who was defending it
+near the hearth, raised it above his head to prevent it from being torn
+away. Some time before the attack, the women had taken the precaution
+to put out the fire lest in the struggle somebody should fall in and get
+burned. The jocular grave-digger, in league with the ox-driver, grasped
+the trophy and tossed it easily across the andirons. It was done! Nobody
+might interfere. The grave-digger sprang to the middle of the room
+and lighted a few wisps of straw, which he placed about the spit under
+pretense of cooking the roast, for the goose was in pieces and the floor
+was strewn with its scattered fragments.
+
+Then there was a great deal of laughter and much boastful dispute.
+Everybody showed the marks of the blows he had received, and as it
+was often a friend's hand that had struck them, there was no word of
+complaint nor of quarreling. The hemp-dresser, half flattened out, kept
+rubbing the small of his back and saying that, although it made small
+difference to him, he protested against the ruse of his friend, the
+grave-digger, and that if he had not been half dead, the hearth had
+never been captured so easily. The women swept the floor and order
+was restored. The table was covered with jugs of new wine. When the
+contestants had drunk together and taken breath, the bridegroom was led
+to the middle of the chamber, and, armed with a wand, he was obliged to
+submit to a fresh trial.
+
+During the struggle, the bride and three of her companions had been
+hidden by her mother, godmother, and aunts, who had made the four girls
+sit down in a remote corner of the room while they covered them with
+a large white cloth. Three friends of Marie's height, with caps of a
+uniform size, were chosen, so that when they were enveloped from head to
+toe by the cloth it was impossible to tell them apart.
+
+The bridegroom might not touch them, except with the tip of his staff,
+and then merely to designate which he thought to be his wife. They
+allowed him time enough to make an examination with no other help than
+his eyes afforded, and the women, placed on either side, kept zealous
+watch lest cheating should occur. Should he guess wrong, he might not
+dance, with his bride, but only with her he had chosen by mistake.
+
+When Germain stood in front of these ghosts wrapped in the same shroud,
+he feared he should make a wrong choice; and, in truth, that had
+happened to many another, so carefully and conscientiously were the
+precautions made. His heart beat loud. Little Marie did her best to
+breathe hard and shake the cloth a little, but her malicious companions
+followed her example, and kept poking the cloth with their fingers, so
+that there were as many mysterious signals as there were girls beneath
+the canopy. The square head-dresses upheld the cloth so evenly that it
+was impossible to discern the contour of a brow outlined by its folds.
+
+After ten minutes' hesitation, Germain shut his eyes, commended his soul
+to God, and stretched out the wand at random. It touched the forehead
+of little Marie, who cast the cloth from her, and shouted with triumph.
+Then it was his right to kiss her, and lifting her in his strong arms,
+he bore her to the middle of the room, where together they opened the
+dance, which lasted until two in the morning. The company separated to
+meet again at eight. As many people had come from the country round, and
+as there were not beds enough for everybody, each of the village
+maidens took to her bed two or three other girls, while the men spread
+themselves pell-mell on the hay in the barn-loft. You can imagine well
+that they had little sleep, for they did nothing but wrestle and joke,
+and tell foolish stories. Properly, there were three sleepless nights at
+weddings, and these we cannot regret.
+
+At the time appointed for departure, when they had partaken of
+milk-soup, seasoned with a strong dose of pepper to stimulate the
+appetite,--for the wedding-feast gave promise of great bounty,--the
+guests assembled in the farm-yard. Since our parish had been abolished,
+we had to go half a league from home to receive the marriage blessing.
+It was cool and pleasant weather, but the roads were in such wretched
+condition that everybody was on horseback, and each man took a companion
+on his crupper, whether she were young or old. Germain started on the
+gray, and the mare, well-groomed, freshly shod, and decked out
+with ribbons, pranced about and snorted fire from her nostrils. The
+husbandman went to the cottage for his bride in company with his
+brother-in-law, Jacques, who rode the old gray, and carried Mother
+Guillette on the crupper, while Germain returned to the farm-yard in
+triumph, holding his dear little wife before him.
+
+Then the merry cavalcade set out, escorted by the children, who ran
+ahead and fired off their pistols to make the horses jump. Mother
+Maurice was seated in a small cart, with Germain's three children and
+the fiddlers. They led the march to the sound of their instruments.
+Petit-Pierre was so handsome that his old grandmother was pride itself.
+But the eager child did not stay long at her side. During a moment's
+halt made on the journey, before passing through a difficult piece of
+road, he slipped away and ran to beg his father to carry him in front on
+the gray.
+
+“No, no,” replied Germain, “that will call forth some disagreeable joke;
+we must n't do it.”
+
+“It's little that I care what the people of Saint Chartier say,” said
+little Marie. “Take him up, Germain, please do; I shall be prouder of
+him than I am of my wedding-gown.”
+
+Germain yielded, and the pretty trio darted into the crowd borne by the
+triumphant gallop of the gray.
+
+And so it was; the people of Saint Chartier, although they were very
+sarcastic, and somewhat disdainful of the neighboring parishes which had
+been annexed to theirs, never thought of laughing when they saw such
+a handsome husband, such a lovely wife, and a child that a king's wife
+might court. Petit-Pierre was all dressed in light blue cloth, with a
+smart red waistcoat so short that it descended scarcely below his chin.
+The village tailor had fitted his armholes so tight that he could not
+bring his two little hands together. But, oh, how proud he was! He wore
+a round hat, with a black-and-gold cord, and a peacock's plume which
+stuck out proudly from a tuft of guinea feathers. A bunch of flowers,
+bigger than his head, covered his shoulder, and ribbons fluttered to his
+feet The hemp-dresser, who was also the barber and hair-dresser of the
+district, had cut his hair evenly, by covering his head with a bowl, and
+clipping off the protruding locks, an infallible method for guiding the
+shears. Thus arrayed, the poor child was less poetic, certainly, than
+with his curls streaming in the wind, and his Saint John Baptist's
+sheepskin about him; but he knew nothing of this, and everybody admired
+him and said that he had quite the air of a little man. His beauty
+triumphed over everything, for what is there over which the exceeding
+beauty of childhood could not triumph?
+
+His little sister, Solange, had, for the first time in her life, a
+peasant's cap in place of the calico hood which little girls wear until
+they are two or three years old. And what a cap it was! Longer and
+larger than the poor little thing's whole body. How beautiful she
+thought it! She dared not even turn her head; so she kept quite still
+and thought the people would take her for the bride.
+
+As for little Sylvain, he was still in long clothes, and, fast asleep on
+his grandmother's knees, he did not even know what a wedding was.
+
+Germain looked at his children tenderly, and when they reached the town
+hall, he said to his bride:
+
+“Marie, I have come here with a happier heart than I had the day when I
+brought you home from the forest of Chanteloube, thinking that you could
+never love me. I took you in my arms to put you on the ground as I do
+here; but I thought that never again should we be mounted on the good
+gray with the child on our knees. I love you so dearly, I love these
+little creatures so dearly, I am so happy that you love me and that you
+love them, and that my family love you, and I love your mother so well
+and all my friends so well, and everybody else so well today, that I
+wish I had three or four hearts to fill all of them; for surely one is
+too small to hold so much love and so much happiness. It almost makes my
+stomach ache.”
+
+There was a crowd at the door of the town hall and another at the church
+to see the pretty bride. Why should we not tell about her dress? it
+became her so well. Her muslin cap, without spot and covered with
+embroidery, had lappets trimmed with lace. At that time peasant women
+never allowed a single lock to be seen, and, although they conceal
+beneath their caps splendid coils of hair tied up with tape to hold the
+coif in place, even to-day it would be thought a scandal and a shame for
+them to show themselves bareheaded to men. Nowadays, however, they allow
+a slender braid to appear over their foreheads, and this improves their
+appearance very much. Yet I regret the classic head-dress of my time;
+its spotless laces next the bare skin gave an effect of pristine purity
+which seemed to me very solemn; and when a face looked beautiful thus it
+was with a beauty of which nothing can express the charm and unaffected
+majesty.
+
+Little Marie wore her cap thus, and her forehead was so white and so
+pure that it defied the whiteness of linen to cast it in the shade.
+Although she had not closed an eye the night before, the morning air
+and, yet more, the joy within of a soul pure as the heaven, and, more
+than all, a small secret flame guarded with the modesty of girlhood,
+caused a bloom to mount to her cheeks delicate as the peach-blossom in
+the first beams of an April sun.
+
+Her white scarf, modestly crossed over her breast, left visible only the
+soft curves of a neck rounded like a turtle-dove's; her home-made cloth
+gown of myrtle-green outlined her pretty figure, which looked already
+perfect, yet which must still grow and develop, for she was but
+seventeen. She wore an apron of violet silk with the bib our peasant
+women were so foolish as to suppress, which added so much elegance and
+decency to the breast. Nowadays they display their scarfs more proudly,
+but there is no longer in their dress that delicate flower of the purity
+of long ago, which made them look like Holbein's virgins. They are more
+forward and more profuse in their courtesies. The good old custom used
+to be a kind of staid reserve which made their rare smile deeper and
+more ideal.
+
+During the offertory, after the fashion of the day, Germain placed the
+“thirteen”--that is to say, thirteen pieces of silver--in his bride's
+hand. He slipped over her finger a silver ring of a form unchanged
+for centuries, but which is replaced for henceforth by the golden
+wedding-ring. As they walked out of church, Marie said in a low voice:
+
+“Is this really the ring I wanted? Is it the one I asked you for,
+Germain?”
+
+“Yes,” answered he, “my Catherine wore it on her finger when she died.
+There is but one ring for both my weddings.”
+
+“Thank you, Germain,” said the young woman, in a serious and impressive
+tone. “I shall die with it on, and if I go before you, you must keep it
+for the marriage of your little Solange.”
+
+
+
+
+IV -- The Cabbage
+
+THEY mounted and returned very quickly to Belair. The feast was
+bountiful, and, mingled with songs and dances, it lasted until
+midnight. For fourteen hours the old people did not leave the table. The
+grave-digger did the cooking, and did it very well. He was celebrated
+for this, and he would leave his fire to come in and dance and sing
+before and after every course. And yet this poor Father Bontemps was
+epileptic. Who would have thought it? He was fresh and strong, and merry
+as a young man. One day we found him in a ditch, struck down by his
+malady at nightfall. We carried him home with us, in a wheelbarrow, and
+we spent all night in caring for him. Three days afterward, he was at a
+wedding, singing like a thrush, jumping like a kid, and bustling about
+after his old fashion. When he left a marriage, he would go to dig a
+grave, and nail up a coffin. Then he would become very grave, and
+though nothing of this appeared in his gay humor, it left a melancholy
+impression which hastened the return of his attacks. His wife was
+paralyzed, and had not stirred from her chair for twenty years. His
+mother is living yet, at a hundred and forty, but he, poor man, so happy
+and good and amusing, was killed last year by falling from his loft
+to the sidewalk. Doubtless he died a victim to a fatal attack of his
+disease, and, as was his habit, had hidden in the hay, so as not to
+frighten and distress his family. In this tragic manner he ended a life
+strange as his disposition--a medley of things sad and mad, awful and
+gay; and, in the midst of all, his heart was ever good and his nature
+kind.
+
+Now we come to the third day of the wedding, the most curious of all,
+which is kept to-day in all its vigor. We shall not speak of the roast
+which they carry to the bridal bed; it is a very silly custom, and hurts
+the self-respect of the bride, while it tends to ruin the modesty of
+the attendant girls. Besides, I believe that it is practised in all the
+provinces, and does not belong peculiarly to our own.
+
+Just as the ceremony of the wedding favors is a symbol that the heart
+and home of the bride are won, that of the cabbage is a symbol of the
+fruit-fulness of marriage. When breakfast is over on the day after the
+wedding, this fantastic representation begins. Originally of Gallic
+derivation, it has passed through primitive Christianity, and little by
+little it has become a kind of mystery, or droll morality-play of the
+Middle Ages.
+
+Two boys, the merriest and most intelligent of the company, disappear
+from breakfast, and after costuming themselves, return escorted by dogs,
+children, and pistol-shots. They represent a pair of beggars--husband
+and wife--dressed in rags. The husband is the filthier of the two; it is
+vice which has brought him so low; the wife is unhappy and degraded only
+through the misdeeds of her husband.
+
+They are called the gardener and the gardener's wife, and they pretend
+it is their duty to guard and care for the sacred cabbage. The husband
+has several names, each with a meaning. Sometimes they call him the
+“scarecrow,” because his head is covered with straw or hemp, and because
+his legs and a portion of his body are surrounded with straw to hide
+his nakedness, ill concealed by his rags. He has also a great belly,
+or hump, constructed of straw or hay underneath his blouse. Then he is
+known as the “ragamuffin,” on account of his covering of rags. Lastly he
+is termed the “infidel,” and this is most significant of all, because by
+his cynicism and his debauchery he is supposed to typify the opposite of
+every Christian virtue.
+
+He comes with his face all smeared with soot and the lees of wine, and
+sometimes made yet more hideous by a grotesque mask. An earthenware cup,
+notched and broken, or an old sabot attached to his girdle by a cord,
+shows that he has come to beg for alms of wine. Nobody refuses him, and
+he pretends to drink; then he pours the wine on the ground by way of
+libation. At every step he falls, rolls in the mud, and feigns to be
+a prey to the most shameful drunkenness. His poor wife runs after him,
+picks him up, calls for help, arranges his hempen locks, which straggle
+forth in unkempt wisps from beneath his filthy hat, sheds tears over her
+husband's degradation, and pours forth pathetic reproaches.
+
+“Wretched man,” she cries, “see the misery to which your wickedness
+has brought us. I have to spend all my time sewing and working for you,
+mending your clothes. You tear and bedraggle yourself incessantly. You
+have eaten up all my little property; our six children lie on straw, and
+we are living in a stable with the beasts. Here we are forced to beg for
+alms, and, besides, you are so ugly and vile and despicable that very
+soon they will be tossing us bread as if we were dogs. Ah, my poor
+people, take pity on us! Take pity on me! I have n't deserved my lot,
+and never had woman a more dirty and detestable husband. Help me to
+pick him up, else the wagons will run over him as they run over broken
+bottles, and I shall be a widow, and that will end by killing me with
+grief, though all the world says it would be an excellent riddance
+for me.” Such is the part of the gardener's wife, and her continued
+lamentations last during the entire play. For it is a genuine
+spontaneous comedy acted on the spur of the moment in the open air,
+along the roads and across the fields, aided by every chance occurrence
+that presents itself. Everybody shares in the acting, people within the
+wedding-party and people without, wayfarers and dwellers in houses, for
+three or four hours of the day, as we shall see. The theme is always the
+same, but the variations are infinite; and it is here that we can see
+the instinct of mimicry, the abundance of droll ideas, the fluency, the
+wit at repartee, and even the natural eloquence of our peasants.
+
+The rôle of gardener's wife is intrusted commonly to a slender man,
+beardless and fresh of face, who can give a great appearance of truth to
+his personification and plays the burlesque despair naturally enough to
+make people sad and glad at once, as they are in real life. These thin,
+beardless men are not rare among us, and, strangely enough, they are
+sometimes most remarkable for their muscular strength.
+
+When the wife's misfortunes have been explained, the young men of the
+company try to persuade her to leave her drunken husband and to amuse
+herself with them. They offer her their arms and drag her away. Little
+by little she gives way; her spirits rise, and she begins to run about,
+first with one and then with another, and grows more scandalous in her
+behavior: a fresh “morality”; the ill-conduct of the husband excites and
+aggravates the evil in the wife.
+
+Then the “infidel” wakes from his drunkenness. He looks about for his
+companion, arms himself with a rope and a stick and rushes after her.
+They make him run, they hide, they pass the wife from one to another,
+they try to divert her attention and to deceive her jealous spouse. His
+friends try to get him drunk. At length he catches his unfaithful wife,
+and wishes to beat her. What is truest and most carefully portrayed in
+this play is that the jealous husband never attacks the men who carry
+off his wife. He is very polite and prudent with them, and wishes only
+to take vengeance on the sinning woman, because she is supposed to be
+too feeble to offer resistance.
+
+At the moment, however, when he raises his stick and prepares his cord
+to strike the delinquent, all the men in the party interpose and throw
+themselves between husband and wife.
+
+“Don't strike her! Never strike your wife,” is the formula repeated to
+satiety during these scenes. They disarm the husband, and force him to
+pardon and to kiss his wife, and soon he pretends to love her better
+than ever. He walks along, his arm linked in hers, singing and dancing
+until, in a new access of drunkenness, he rolls upon the ground,
+and then begin all over again the lamentations of the wife, her
+discouragements, her pretended unfaithfulness, her husband's jealousy,
+the interference of the neighbors, and the reconciliation. In all
+this there is a simple and even coarse lesson, which, though it savors
+strongly of its Middle-Age origin, does not fail to fix its impression
+if not on the married folk, who are too loving or too sensible to
+have need of it, at least upon the children and the young people. The
+“infidel,” racing after young girls and pretending to wish to kiss them,
+frightens and disgusts them to such a degree that they fly in unaffected
+terror. His dirty face and his great stick, harmless as it is, make
+the children shriek aloud. It is the comedy of customs in their most
+elementary but their most striking state.
+
+When this farce is well under way, people make ready to hunt for the
+cabbage. They bring a stretcher and place upon it the “infidel,” armed
+with a spade, a cord, and a large basket. Four powerful men raise him
+on their shoulders. His wife follows on foot, and after her come
+the “elders” in a body with serious and thoughtful looks; then the
+wedding-march begins by couples to a step tuned to music. Pistol-shots
+begin anew, and dogs bark louder than ever at the sight of the filthy
+“infidel” borne aloft in triumph. The children swing incense in derision
+with sabots fastened at the end of a cord.
+
+But why this ovation to an object so repulsive? They are marching to the
+capture of the sacred cabbage, emblem of the fruitfulness of marriage,
+and it is this drunkard alone who can bear the symbolic plant in his
+hand. Doubtless, there is in it a pre-Christian mystery which recalls
+the Saturnalian feasts or some rout of the Bacchanals. Perhaps this
+“infidel,” who is, at the same time, preeminently a gardener, is
+none other than Priapus himself, god of gardens and of drunkenness, a
+divinity who must have been pure and serious in his origin as is the
+mystery of birth, but who has been degraded bit by bit through license
+of manners and distraction of thought.
+
+However this may be, the triumphal procession arrives at the bride's
+house, and enters the garden. Then they select the choicest cabbage, and
+this is not done very quickly, for the old people keep consulting and
+disputing interminably, each one pleading for the cabbage he thinks most
+suitable. They put it to vote, and when the choice is made the gardener
+fastens his cord to the stalk, and moves away as far as the size of the
+garden permits. The gardener's wife takes care that the sacred
+vegetable shall not be hurt in its fall. The wits of the wedding, the
+hemp-dresser, the grave-digger, the carpenter, and the sabot-maker, form
+a ring about the cabbage, for men who do not till the soil, but pass
+their lives in other people's houses, are thought to be, and are really,
+wittier and more talkative than simple farmhands. One digs, with a
+spade, a ditch deep enough to uproot an oak. Another places on his
+nose a pair of wooden or cardboard spectacles. He fulfils the duties of
+“engineer,” walks up and down, constructs a plan, stares at the workmen
+through his glasses, plays the pedant, cries out that everything will be
+spoiled, has the work stopped and begun afresh as his fancy directs, and
+makes the whole performance as long and ridiculous as he can. This is
+an addition to the formula of an ancient ceremony held in mockery of
+theorists in general, for peasants despise them royally, or from hatred
+of the surveyors who decide boundaries and regulate taxes, or of the
+workmen employed on bridges and causeways, who transform commons into
+highways, and suppress old abuses which the peasants love. Be this as it
+may, this character in the comedy is called the “geometrician,” and
+does his best to make himself unbearable to those who are toiling with
+pickaxe and shovel.
+
+After a quarter of an hour spent in mummery, and difficulties raised in
+order to avoid cutting the roots, and to transplant the cabbage without
+injury, while shovelfuls of dirt are tossed into the faces of the
+onlookers,--so much the worse for him who does not retreat in time,
+for were he bishop or prince he must receive the baptism of earth,--the
+“infidel” pulls the rope, the “infidel's wife” holds her apron, and the
+cabbage falls majestically amidst the applause of the spectators. Then a
+basket is brought, and the “infidel” pair plant the cabbage therein
+with every care and precaution. They surround it with fresh earth, and
+support it with sticks and strings, such as city florists use for their
+splendid potted camellias; they fix red apples to the points of the
+sticks, and twist sprigs of thyme, sage, and laurel all about them; they
+bedeck the whole with ribbons and streamers; they place the trophy
+upon the stretcher with the “infidel,” whose duty it is to maintain its
+equilibrium and preserve it from harm; and, at length, they move away
+from the garden in good order and in marching step.
+
+But when they are about to pass the gate, and again when they enter the
+yard of the bridegroom's house, an imaginary obstacle blocks the way.
+The bearers of the burden stagger, utter loud cries, retreat, advance
+once more, and, as though crushed by a resistless force, they pretend
+to sink beneath its weight. While this is going on, the bystanders shout
+loudly, exciting and steadying this human team.
+
+“Slowly, slowly, my child. There, there, courage! Look out! Be patient!
+Lower your head; the door is too low! Close up; it's too narrow! A little
+more to the left; now to the right; on with you; don't be afraid; you
+'re almost there.”
+
+Thus it is that in years of plentiful harvest, the ox-cart, loaded to
+overflowing with hay or corn, is too broad or too high to enter the
+barn door. Thus it is that the driver shouts at the strong beasts, to
+restrain them or to urge them on; thus it is that with skill and mighty
+efforts they force this mountain of riches beneath the rustic arch of
+triumph. It is, above all, the last load, called “the cart of sheaves,”
+ which requires these precautions, for this is a rural festival, and
+the last sheaf lifted from the last furrow is placed on the top of the
+cart-load ornamented with ribbons and flowers, while the foreheads of
+the oxen and the whip of the driver are decorated also. The triumphant
+and toilsome entry of the cabbage into the house is a symbol of the
+prosperity and fruitfulness it represents.
+
+Safe within the bridegroom's yard, the cabbage is taken from its
+stretcher and borne to the topmost peak of the house or barn. Whether it
+be a chimney, a gable, or a dove-cote that crowns the roof, the burden
+must, at any risk, be carried to the very highest point of the building.
+The “infidel” accompanies it as far as this, sets it down securely, and
+waters it with a great pitcher of wine, while a salvo of pistol-shots
+and demonstrations of joy from the “infidel's wife” proclaim its
+inauguration.
+
+Without delay, the same ceremony is repeated all over again. Another
+cabbage is dug from the garden of the husband and is carried with the
+same formalities and laid upon the roof which his wife has deserted to
+follow him. These trophies remain in their places until the wind and the
+rain destroy the baskets and carry away the cabbage. Yet their lives are
+long enough to give some chance of fulfilment to the prophecies which
+the old men and women make with bows and courtesies.
+
+“Beautiful cabbage,” they say, “live and flourish that our young bride
+may have a fine baby before a year is over; for if you die too quickly
+it is a sign of barrenness, and you will stick up there like an ill
+omen.”
+
+The day is already far gone when all these things are accomplished. All
+that remains undone is to take home the godfathers and godmothers of the
+newly married couple. When the so-called parents dwell at a distance,
+they are accompanied by the music and the whole wedding procession as
+far as the limits of the parish; there they dance anew on the highroad,
+and everybody kisses them good-by. The “infidel” and his wife are then
+washed and dressed decently, if the fatigue of their parts has not
+already driven them away to take a nap.
+
+Everybody was still dancing and singing and eating in the Town Hall of
+Belair at midnight on this third day of the wedding when Germain was
+married. The old men at table could not stir, and for good reason. They
+recovered neither their legs nor their wits until dawn on the morrow.
+While they were regaining their dwellings, silently and with uncertain
+steps, Germain, proud and active, went out to hitch his oxen, leaving
+his young wife to slumber until daylight. The lark, caroling as it
+mounted to the skies, seemed to him the voice of his heart returning
+thanks to Providence. The hoar-frost, sparkling on the leafless bushes,
+seemed to him the whiteness of April flowers that comes before the
+budding leaves. Everything in nature was laughing and happy for him.
+Little Pierre had laughed and jumped so much the evening before that he
+did not come to help lead his oxen; but Germain was glad to be alone.
+He fell on his knees in the furrow he was about to plow afresh, and said
+his morning prayer with such a burst of feeling that two tears rolled
+down his cheeks, still moist with sweat.
+
+Afar off he heard the songs of the boys from neighboring villages, who
+were starting on their return home, singing again in their hoarse voices
+the happy tunes of the night before.
+
+THE END.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Devil's Pool, by George Sand
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Devil's Pool, by George Sand
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Devil's Pool
+
+Author: George Sand
+
+Illustrator: E. Abot
+
+Translator: Jane Minot Sedgwick And Ellery Sedgwick
+
+Release Date: July 4, 2007 [EBook #21993]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEVIL'S POOL ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+THE DEVIL'S POOL
+
+By George Sand
+
+
+Translated From The French By Jane Minot Sedgwick And Ellery Sedgwick
+
+
+With An Etching By E. Abot
+
+1901
+
+
+
+
+THE DEVIL'S POOL
+
+
+
+THE AUTHOR TO THE READER
+
+     _A la sueur de ton visaige,
+        Tu gagnerais ta pauvre vie.
+     Apr�s long travail et usaige,
+        Voicy la mort qui te convie._ *
+
+THIS quaint old French verse, written under one of Holbein's pictures,
+is profoundly melancholy. The engraving represents a laborer driving his
+plow through the middle of a field. Beyond him stretches a vast horizon,
+dotted with wretched huts; the sun is sinking behind the hill. It is the
+end of a hard day's work. The peasant is old, bent, and clothed in rags.
+He is urging onward a team of four thin and exhausted horses; the
+plowshare sinks into a stony and ungrateful soil. One being only is
+active and alert in this scene of toil and sorrow. It is a fantastic
+creature. A skeleton armed with a whip, who acts as plowboy to the old
+laborer, and running along through the furrow beside the terrified
+horses, goads them on. This is the specter Death, whom Holbein has
+introduced allegorically into that series of religious and philosophic
+subjects, at once melancholy and grotesque, entitled "The Dance of
+Death."
+
+   * In toil and sorrow thou shalt eat
+     The bitter bread of poverty.
+     After the burden and the heat,
+     Lo! it is Death who calls for thee.
+
+In this collection, or rather this mighty composition, where Death, who
+plays his part on every page, is the connecting link and predominating
+thought, Holbein has called up kings, popes, lovers, gamesters,
+drunkards, nuns, courtesans, thieves, warriors, monks, Jews, and
+travelers,--all the people of his time and our own; and everywhere the
+specter Death is among them, taunting, threatening, and triumphing. He
+is absent from one picture only, where Lazarus, lying on a dunghill at
+the rich man's door, declares that the specter has no terrors for him;
+probably because he has nothing to lose, and his existence is already a
+life in death.
+
+Is there comfort in this stoical thought of the half-pagan Christianity
+of the Renaissance, and does it satisfy religious souls? The upstart,
+the rogue, the tyrant, the rake, and all those haughty sinners who make
+an ill use of life, and whose steps are dogged by Death, will be surely
+punished; but can the reflection that death is no evil make amends for
+the long hardships of the blind man, the beggar, the madman, and the
+poor peasant? No! An inexorable sadness, an appalling fatality brood
+over the artist's work. It is like a bitter curse, hurled against the
+fate of humanity.
+
+Holbein's faithful delineation of the society in which he lived is,
+indeed, painful satire. His attention was engrossed by crime and
+calamity; but what shall we, who are artists of a later date, portray?
+Shall we look to find the reward of the human beings of to-day in
+the contemplation of death, and shall we invoke it as the penalty of
+unrighteousness and the compensation of suffering?
+
+No, henceforth, our business is not with death, but with life. We
+believe no longer in the nothingness of the grave, nor in safety bought
+with the price of a forced renunciation; life must be enjoyed in order
+to be fruitful. Lazarus must leave his dunghill, so that the poor need
+no longer exult in the death of the rich. All must be made happy, that
+the good fortune of a few may not be a crime and a curse. As the laborer
+sows his wheat, he must know that he is helping forward the work of
+life, instead of rejoicing that Death walks at his side. We may
+no longer consider death as the chastisement of prosperity or the
+consolation of distress, for God has decreed it neither as the
+punishment nor the compensation of life. Life has been blessed by Him,
+and it is no longer permissible for us to leave the grave as the only
+refuge for those whom we are unwilling to make happy.
+
+There are some artists of our own day, who, after a serious survey of
+their surroundings, take pleasure in painting misery, the sordidness of
+poverty, and the dunghill of Lazarus. This may belong to the domain of
+art and philosophy; but by depicting poverty as so hideous, so degraded,
+and sometimes so vicious and criminal, do they gain their end, and is
+that end as salutary as they would wish? We dare not pronounce judgment.
+They may answer that they terrify the unjust rich man by pointing out to
+him the yawning pit that lies beneath the frail covering of wealth; just
+as in the time of the Dance of Death, they showed him his gaping grave,
+and Death standing ready to fold him in an impure embrace. Now, they
+show him the thief breaking open his doors, and the murderer stealthily
+watching his sleep. We confess we cannot understand how we can reconcile
+him to the human nature he despises, or make him sensible of the
+sufferings of the poor wretch whom he dreads, by showing him this
+wretch in the guise of the escaped convict or the nocturnal burglar. The
+hideous phantom Death, under the repulsive aspect in which he has been
+represented by Holbein and his predecessors, gnashing his teeth and
+playing the fiddle, has been powerless to convert the wicked and console
+their victims. And does not our literature employ the same means as the
+artists of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance?
+
+The revelers of Holbein fill their glasses in a frenzy to dispel the
+idea of Death, who is their cup-bearer, though they do not see him. The
+unjust rich of our own day demand cannon and barricades to drive out
+the idea of an insurrection of the people which Art shows them as slowly
+working in the dark, getting ready to burst upon the State. The Church
+of the Middle Ages met the terrors of the great of the earth with the
+sale of indulgences. The government of to-day soothes the uneasiness of
+the rich by exacting from them large sums for the support of policemen,
+jailors, bayonets, and prisons.
+
+Albert Durer, Michael Angelo, Holbein, Callot, and Goya have made
+powerful satires on the evils of their times and countries, and their
+immortal works are historical documents of unquestionable value. We
+shall not refuse to artists the right to probe the wounds of society
+and lay them bare to our eyes; but is the only function of art still
+to threaten and appall? In the literature of the mysteries of iniquity,
+which talent and imagination have brought into fashion, we prefer the
+sweet and gentle characters, which can attempt and effect conversions,
+to the melodramatic villains, who inspire terror; for terror never cures
+selfishness, but increases it.
+
+We believe that the mission of art is a mission of sentiment and love,
+that the novel of to-day should take the place of the parable and the
+fable of early times, and that the artist has a larger and more poetic
+task than that of suggesting certain prudential and conciliatory
+measures for the purpose of diminishing the fright caused by his
+pictures. His aim should be to render attractive the objects he has at
+heart, and, if necessary, I have no objection to his embellishing them
+a little. Art is not the study of positive reality, but the search for
+ideal truth, and the "Vicar of Wakefield" was a more useful and healthy
+book than the "Paysan Perverti," or the "Liaisons Dangereuses."
+
+Forgive these reflections of mine, kind reader, and let them stand as
+a preface, for there will be no other to the little story I am going
+to relate to you. My tale is to be so short and so simple, that I felt
+obliged to make you my apologies for it beforehand, by telling you what
+I think of the literature of terror.
+
+I have allowed myself to be drawn into this digression for the sake of a
+laborer; and it is the story of a laborer which I have been meaning to
+tell you, and which I shall now tell you at once.
+
+
+
+
+I -- The Tillage of the Soil
+
+I HAD just been looking long and sadly at Holbein's plowman, and was
+walking through the fields, musing on rustic life and the destiny of
+the husbandman. It is certainly tragic for him to spend his days and his
+strength delving in the jealous earth, that so reluctantly yields up her
+rich treasures when a morsel of coarse black bread, at the end of the
+day's work, is the sole reward and profit to be reaped from such arduous
+toil. The wealth of the soil, the harvests, the fruits, the splendid
+cattle that grow sleek and fat in the luxuriant grass, are the property
+of the few, and but instruments of the drudgery and slavery of the many.
+The man of leisure seldom loves, for their own sake, the fields and
+meadows, the landscape, or the noble animals which are to be converted
+into gold for his use. He comes to the country for his health or for
+change of air, but goes back to town to spend the fruit of his vassal's
+labor.
+
+On the other hand, the peasant is too abject, too wretched, and too
+fearful of the future to enjoy the beauty of the country and the charms
+of pastoral life. To him, also, the yellow harvest-fields, the rich
+meadows, the fine cattle represent bags of gold; but he knows that
+only an infinitesimal part of their contents, insufficient for his daily
+needs, will ever fall to his share. Yet year by year he must fill those
+accursed bags, to please his master and buy the right of living on his
+land in sordid wretchedness. Yet nature is eternally young, beautiful,
+and generous. She pours forth poetry and beauty on all creatures and
+all plants that are allowed free development.
+
+She owns the secret of happiness, of which no one has ever robbed her.
+The happiest of men would be he who, knowing the full meaning of his
+labor, should, while working with his hands, find his happiness and his
+freedom in the exercise of his intelligence, and, having his heart in
+unison with his brain, should at once understand his own work and love
+that of God, The artist has such delights as these in contemplating and
+reproducing the beauties of nature; but if his heart be true and tender,
+his pleasure is disturbed when he sees the miseries of the men who
+people this paradise of earth. True happiness will be theirs when mind,
+heart, and hand shall work in concert in the sight of Heaven, and there
+shall be a sacred harmony between God's goodness and the joys of his
+creatures. Then, instead of the pitiable and frightful figure of Death
+stalking, whip in hand, across the fields, the painter of allegories
+may place beside the peasant a radiant angel, sowing the blessed grain
+broadcast in the smoking furrow. The dream of a serene, free, poetic,
+laborious, and simple life for the tiller of the soil is not so
+impossible that we should banish it as a chimera. The sweet, sad words
+of Virgil: "Oh, happy the peasants of the field, if they knew their own
+blessings!" is a regret, but, like all regrets, it is also a prophecy.
+The day will come when the laborer too may be an artist, and may at
+least feel what is beautiful, if he cannot express it,--a matter of far
+less importance. Do not we know that this mysterious poetic intuition
+is already his, in the form of instinct and vague reverie? Among those
+peasants who possess some of the comforts of life, and whose moral
+and intellectual development is not entirely stifled by extreme
+wretchedness, pure happiness that can be felt and appreciated exists
+in the elementary stage; and, moreover, since poets have already raised
+their voices out of the lap of pain and of weariness, why should we say
+that the labor of the hands excludes the working of the soul? Without
+doubt this exclusion is the common result of excessive toil and of deep
+misery; but let it not be said that when men shall work moderately and
+usefully there will be nothing but bad workers and bad poets. The man
+who draws in noble joy from the poetic feeling is a true poet, though he
+has never written a verse all his life.
+
+My thoughts had flown in this direction, without my perceiving that
+my confidence in the capacity of man for education was strengthened by
+external influences. I was walking along the edge of a field, which some
+peasants were preparing to sow. The space was vast as that in Holbein's
+picture; the landscape, too, was vast and framed in a great sweep of
+green, slightly reddened by the approach of autumn. Here and there in
+the great russet field, slender rivulets of water left in the furrows by
+the late rains sparkled in the sunlight like silver threads. The day was
+clear and mild, and the soil, freshly cleft by the plowshare, sent up
+a light steam. At the other extremity of the field, an old man, whose
+broad shoulders and stern face recalled Holbein's plowman, but whose
+clothes carried no suggestion of poverty, was gravely driving his plow
+of antique shape, drawn by two placid oxen, true patriarchs of the
+meadow, tall and rather thin, with pale yellow coats and long, drooping
+horns. They were those old workers who, through long habit, have grown
+to be _brothers_, as they are called in our country, and who, when one
+loses the other, refuse to work with a new comrade, and pine away with
+grief. People who are unfamiliar with the country call the love of the
+ox for his yoke-fellow a fable. Let them come and see in the corner of
+the stable one of these poor beasts, thin and wasted, restlessly lashing
+his lean flanks with his tail, violently breathing with mingled terror
+and disdain on the food offered him, his eyes always turned toward the
+door, scratching with his hoof the empty place at his side, sniffing the
+yokes and chains which his fellow used to wear, and incessantly calling
+him with melancholy lowings. The ox-herd will say: "There is a pair
+of oxen gone;' this one will work no more, for his brother is dead. We
+ought to fatten him for the market, but he will not eat, and will soon
+starve himself to death." The old laborer worked slowly, silently, and
+without waste of effort His docile team were in no greater haste than
+he; but, thanks to the undistracted steadiness of his toil and the
+judicious expenditure of his strength, his furrow was as soon plowed as
+that of his son, who was driving, at some distance from him, four less
+vigorous oxen through a more stubborn and stony piece of ground.
+
+My attention was next caught by a fine spectacle, a truly noble subject
+for a painter. At the other end of the field a fine-looking youth was
+driving a magnificent team of four pairs of young oxen, through whose
+somber coats glanced a ruddy, glow-like name. They had the short, curry
+heads that belong to the wild bull, the same large, fierce eyes and
+jerky movements; they worked in an abrupt, nervous way that showed how
+they still rebelled against the yoke and goad, and trembled with anger
+as they obeyed the authority so recently imposed. They were what is
+called "newly yoked" oxen. The man who drove them had to clear a corner
+of the field that had formerly been given up to pasture, and was
+filled with old tree-stumps; and his youth and energy, and his eight
+half-broken animals, hardly sufficed for the Herculean task.
+
+A child of six or seven years old, lovely as an angel, wearing round his
+shoulders, over his blouse, a sheepskin that made him look like a little
+Saint John the Baptist out of a Renaissance picture, was running along
+in the furrow beside the plow, pricking the flanks of the oxen with a
+long, light goad but slightly sharpened. The spirited animals quivered
+under the child's light touch, making their yokes and head-bands creak,
+and shaking the pole violently. Whenever a root stopped the advance
+of the plowshare, the laborer would call every animal by name in his
+powerful voice, trying to calm rather than to excite them; for the oxen,
+irritated by the sudden resistance, bounded, pawed the ground with their
+great cloven hoofs, and would have jumped aside and dragged the plow
+across the fields, if the young man had not kept the first four in order
+with his voice and goad, while the child controlled the four others.
+The little fellow shouted too, but the voice which he tried to make of
+terrible effect, was as sweet as his angelic face. The whole scene was
+beautiful in its grace and strength; the landscape, the man, the child,
+the oxen under the yoke; and in spite of the mighty struggle by which
+the earth was subdued, a deep feeling of peace and sweetness reigned
+over all. Each time that an obstacle was surmounted and the plow resumed
+its even, solemn progress, the laborer, whose pretended violence was
+but a trial of his strength, and an outlet for his energy, instantly
+regained that serenity which is the right of simple souls, and looked
+with fatherly pleasure toward his child, who turned to smile back at
+him. Then the young father would raise his manly voice in the solemn
+and melancholy chant that ancient tradition transmits, not indeed to all
+plowmen indiscriminately, but to those who are most perfect in the art
+of exciting and sustaining the spirit of cattle while at work. This
+song, which was probably sacred in its origin, and to which mysterious
+influences must once have been attributed, is still thought to
+possess the virtue of putting animals on their mettle, allaying their
+irritation, and of beguiling the weariness of their long, hard toil.
+It is not enough to guide them skilfully, to trace a perfectly straight
+furrow, and to lighten their labor by raising the plowshare or driving
+it into the earth; no man can be a consummate husbandman who does not
+know how to sing to his oxen, and that is an art that requires taste
+and especial gifts. To tell the truth, this chant is only a recitative,
+broken off and taken up at pleasure. Its irregular form and its
+intonations that violate all the rules of musical art make it impossible
+to describe.
+
+But it is none the less a noble song, and so appropriate is it to the
+nature of the work it accompanies, to the gait of the oxen, to the peace
+of the fields, and to the simplicity of the men who sing it, that no
+genius unfamiliar with the tillage of the earth, and no man except an
+accomplished laborer of our part of the country, could repeat it. At the
+season of the year when there is no work or stir afoot except that of
+the plowman, this strong, sweet refrain rises like the voice of the
+breeze, to which the key it is sung in gives it some resemblance. Each
+phrase ends with a long trill, the final note of which is held with
+incredible strength of breath, and rises a quarter of a tone, sharping
+systematically. It is barbaric, but possesses an unspeakable charm, and
+anybody, once accustomed to hear it, cannot conceive of another song
+taking its place at the same hour and in the same place, without
+striking a discord.
+
+So it was that I had before my eyes a picture the reverse of that of
+Holbein, although the scene was similar. Instead of a wretched old man,
+a young and active one; instead of a team of weary and emaciated horses,
+four yoke of robust and fiery oxen; instead of death, a beautiful
+child; instead of despair and destruction, energy and the possibility of
+happiness.
+
+Then the old French verse, "� la sueur de ton vis-aige," etc., and
+Virgil's "O fortunatos... agricolas," returned to my mind, and seeing
+this lovely child and his father, under such poetic conditions, and with
+so much grace and strength, accomplish a task full of such grand
+and solemn suggestions, I was conscious of deep pity and involuntary
+respect. Happy the peasant of the fields! Yes, and so too should I be
+in his place, if my arm and voice could be endowed with sudden strength,
+and I could help to make Nature fruitful, and sing of her gifts, without
+ceasing to see with my eyes or understand with my brain harmonious
+colors and sounds, delicate shades and graceful outlines; in short, the
+mysterious beauty of all things. And above all, if my heart continued
+to beat in concert with the divine sentiment that presided over the
+immortal sublimity of creation.
+
+But, alas! this man has never understood the mystery of beauty; this
+child will never understand it. God forbid that I should not think them
+superior to the animals which are subject to them, or that they have not
+moments of rapturous insight that soothe their toil and lull their cares
+to sleep. I see the seal of the Lord upon their noble brows, for they
+were born to inherit the earth far more truly than those who have bought
+and paid for it. The proof that they feel this is that they cannot be
+exiled with impunity, that they love the soil they have watered with
+their tears, and that the true peasant dies of homesickness under the
+arms of a soldier far from his native field. But he lacks some of my
+enjoyments, those pure delights which should be his by right, as a
+workman in that immense temple which the sky only is vast enough
+to embrace. He lacks the consciousness of his sentiment. Those who
+condemned him to slavery from his mother's womb, being unable to rob him
+of his vague dreams, took away from him the power of reflection.
+
+Yet, imperfect being that he is, sentenced to eternal childhood, he is
+nobler than the man in whom knowledge has stifled feeling. Do not set
+yourselves above him, you who believe yourselves invested with a lawful
+and inalienable right to rule over him, for your terrible mistake shows
+that your brain has destroyed your heart, and that you are the blindest
+and most incomplete of men! I love the simplicity of his soul more than
+the false lights of yours; and if I had to narrate the story of his
+life, the pleasure I should take in bringing out the tender and touching
+side of it would be greater than your merit in painting the degradation
+and contempt into which he is cast by your social code.
+
+I knew the young man and the beautiful child; I knew their history, for
+they had a history. Everybody has his own, and could make the romance
+of his life interesting, if he could but understand it. Although but a
+peasant and a laborer, Germain had always been aware of his duties and
+affections. He had related them to me clearly and ingenuously, and I had
+listened with interest. After some time spent in watching him plow, it
+occurred to me that I might write his story, though that story were as
+simple, as straightforward, and unadorned as the furrow he was tracing.
+
+Next year that furrow will be filled and covered by a fresh one. Thus
+disappear most of the footprints made by man in the field of human life.
+A little earth obliterates them, and the furrows we have dug succeed one
+another like graves in a cemetery. Is not the furrow of the laborer of
+as much value as that of the idler, even if that idler, by some absurd
+chance, have made a little noise in the world, and left behind him an
+abiding name?
+
+I mean, if possible, to save from oblivion the furrow of Germain,
+the skilled husbandman. He will never know nor care, but I shall take
+pleasure in my talk.
+
+
+
+
+II -- Father Maurice
+
+"GERMAIN," said his father-in-law one day, "you must decide about
+marrying again. It is almost two years now since you lost my daughter,
+and your eldest boy is seven years old! You are almost thirty, my boy,
+and you know that in our country a man is considered too old to go to
+housekeeping again after that age; you have three nice children, and
+thus far they have not proved a burden to us at all. My wife and my
+daughter-in-law have looked after them as well as they could, and loved
+them as they ought. Here is Petit-Pierre almost grown up. He goads the
+oxen very well; he knows how to look after the cattle; and he is strong
+enough to drive the horses to the trough. So it is not he that worries
+us. But the other two, love them though we do, God knows the poor little
+innocents give us trouble enough this year; my daughter-in-law is about
+to lie in, and she has yet another baby to attend to. When the child
+we are expecting comes, she will not be able to look after your little
+Solange, and above all your Sylvain, who is not four years old, and who
+is never quiet day or night. He has a restless disposition like yours;
+that will make a good workman of him, but it makes a dreadful child, and
+my old wife cannot run fast enough to save him when he almost tumbles
+into the ditch, or when he throws himself in front of the tramping
+cattle. And then with this other that my daughter-in-law is going to
+bring into the world, for a month at least her next older child will
+fall on my wife's hands. Besides, your children worry us, and give us
+too much to do; we hate to see children badly looked after, and when we
+think of the accidents that may befall them, for want of care, we cannot
+rest. So you need another wife, and I another daughter-in-law. Think
+this over, my son. I have called it to your mind before. Time flies,
+and the years will not wait a moment for you. It is your duty to your
+children and to the rest of us, who wish all well at home, to marry as
+soon as you can." "Very well, father," answered the son-in-law, "if you
+really wish it, I must do as you say. But I do not wish to hide it from
+you that it will make me very sad, and that I hardly wish tor anything
+but to drown myself. We know who it is we lose, we never know whom we
+find. I had a good wife, a pretty wife, sweet, brave, good to her father
+and mother, good to her husband, good to her children, good to toil in
+the fields and in the house, well fitted to work,--in short, good for
+everything; and when you had given her to me, and I took her, we did
+not place it among our promises that I should go and forget about her if
+I had the misfortune to lose her."
+
+"What you say shows your good heart, Germain," answered Father Maurice.
+"I know that you loved my daughter and that you made her happy, and
+that had you been able to satisfy Death by going in her place, Catherine
+would be alive today, and you would be in the graveyard. She deserved
+all your love, and if you are not consoled, neither are we. But I do not
+speak to you of forgetting her: God wished her to leave us, and we do
+not let a day go by without telling him in our prayers and thoughts,
+and words and actions, that we keep her memory and still sorrow for her
+loss. But if she could speak to you from the other world, and let you
+know what she wishes, she would tell you to find a mother for her little
+orphans. So the question is to find a woman who will be worthy to take
+her place. It will not be easy, but it is not impossible. And when
+we shall find her for you, you will love her as you used to love my
+daughter, because you are a good man, and because you will be thankful
+to her for helping us and for loving your children."
+
+"Very well, Father Maurice, I shall do as you wish, as I have always
+done."
+
+"It is only justice, my son, to say that you have always listened to the
+friendly advice and good judgment of the head of the house. So let us
+consult about your choice of a new wife. First, I don't advise you to
+take a young girl. That is not what you need. Youth is careless, and, as
+it is hard work to bring up three children, especially when they are of
+another bed, you must have a good soul, wise and gentle, and well used
+to work. If your wife is not about the same age as you, she will have
+no reason to accept such a duty. She will find you too old and your
+children too young. She will be complaining, and your children will
+suffer."
+
+"This is just what makes me uneasy. Suppose the poor little things
+should be badly treated, hated, beaten?"
+
+"God grant not," answered the old man. "But bad women are more rare with
+us than good, and we shall be stupid if we cannot pick out somebody who
+will suit us."
+
+"That is true, father. There are good girls in our village. There is
+Louise, Sylvaine, Claudie, Marguerite--yes, anybody you want."
+
+"Gently, gently, my boy. All these girls are too young, or too poof,
+or too pretty; for surely we must think of that top, my son. A pretty
+woman is not always as well behaved as another!"
+
+"Then you wish me to take an ugly wife?" said Germain, a little uneasy.
+
+"No, not ugly at all, for this woman will bear you other children, and
+there is nothing more miserable than to have children who are ugly and
+weak and sickly. But a woman still fresh and in good health, who is
+neither pretty nor ugly, would suit you exactly."
+
+"I am quite sure," said Germain, smiling rather sadly, "that to get
+such a woman as you wish, you must have her made to order. All the more
+because you don't wish her to be poor, and the rich are not easy to get,
+particularly for a widower."
+
+"And suppose she were a widow herself, Germain? A widow without children
+and with a good portion?"
+
+"For the moment, I cannot think of anybody like this in our parish."
+
+"Nor I either. But there are others elsewhere."
+
+"You have somebody in mind, father. Then tell me, at once, who it is."
+
+
+
+
+III -- Germain, the Skilled Husbandman
+
+"YES, I have somebody in mind," replied Father Maurice. "It is a
+Leonard, the widow of a Gu�rin. She lives at Fourche."
+
+"I know neither the woman nor the place," answered Germain, resigned,
+but growing more and more melancholy.
+
+"Her name is Catherine, like your dead wife's."
+
+"Catherine? Yes, I shall be glad to have to pronounce that name,
+Catherine; and yet if I cannot love one as much as the other, it will
+pain me all the more. It will bring her to my mind more often."
+
+"I tell you, you will love her. She is a good soul, a woman with a warm
+heart. I have not seen her for a long time. She was not an ugly girl
+then. But she is no longer young. She is thirty-two. She comes of a good
+family, honest people all of them, and for property she has eight or ten
+thousand francs in land which she would sell gladly in order to invest
+in the place where she settles. For she, too, is thinking of marrying
+again, and I know that if your character pleases her, she will not be
+dissatisfied with your situation."
+
+"So you have made all the arrangements?"
+
+"Yes, except that I have not had an opinion from either of you, and that
+is what you must ask each other when you meet. The woman's father is
+a distant connection of mine, and he has been a good friend to me. You
+know Father Leonard well?"
+
+"Yes, I have seen you two talking at the market, and at the last you
+lunched together. Then it was about her that he spoke to you so long?"
+
+"Certainly. He watched you selling your cattle and saw that you drove
+a shrewd bargain, and that you were a good-looking fellow and appeared
+active and intelligent; and when I told him what a good fellow you were
+and how well you have behaved toward us, without one word of vexation or
+anger during the eight years we have been living and working together,
+he took it into his head to marry you to his daughter. This suits me,
+too, I admit, when I think of her good reputation and the honesty of her
+family and the prosperous condition I know her affairs are in."
+
+"I see, Father Maurice, that you have an eye to money."
+
+"Of course I do; you have, too, have you not?"
+
+"I do look toward it, if you wish, for your sake; but you know that,
+for my own part, I don't worry whether I gain or not in what we make. I
+don't understand about profit-sharing; I have no head for that sort
+of thing. I understand the ground; I understand cattle, horses, carts,
+sowing, threshing, and provender. As for sheep, and vineyards, and
+vegetables, petty profits, and fine gardening, you know that is your
+son's business. I don't have much to do with it. As to money, my memory
+is short, and I should rather give up everything than fight about what
+is yours and what is mine. I should be afraid of making some mistake and
+claiming what does not belong to me, and if business were not so clear
+and simple I should never find my way in it."
+
+"So much the worse, my son; and this is the reason I wish you to have a
+wife with a clear head to fill my place when I am gone. You never wished
+to understand our accounts, and this might lead you into a quarrel with
+my son, when you don't have me any longer to keep you in harmony and
+decide what is each one's share."
+
+"May you live long, Father Maurice. But do not worry about what will
+happen when you die. I shall never quarrel with your son. I trust
+Jacques as I do you; and as I have no property of my own, and all that
+might accrue to me comes from your daughter and belongs to our children,
+I can rest easy, and you, too. Jacques would never rob his sister's
+children for the sake of his own, for he loves them all equally."
+
+"You are right, Germain. Jacques is a good son, a good brother, and a
+man who loves the truth. But Jacques may die before you, before your
+children grow up; and in a family we must always remember never to
+leave children without a head to look after them and govern their
+disagreements; otherwise, the lawyer-people mix themselves up in it,
+stir them up to fight, and make them eat up everything in law-suits.
+So we ought not to think of bringing home another person, man or woman,
+without remembering that some day or other that person may have to
+control the behavior and business of twenty or thirty children and
+grandchildren, sons-in-law and daughters-in-law. We never know how big a
+family can grow, and when a hive is so full that the bees must form new
+swarms, each one wishes to carry off her share of the honey. When I took
+you for my son, although my daughter was rich and you were poor, I never
+reproached her for choosing you. I saw that you were a hard worker, and
+I knew very well that the best fortune for people in such a country as
+ours is a pair of arms and a heart like yours. When a man brings these
+into a family, he brings enough. But with a woman it is different. Her
+work indoors saves, but it does not gain. Besides, now that you are
+a father, looking for a second wife, you must remember that your new
+children will have no claim on the property of your children by another
+wife; and if you should happen to die they might suffer very much--at
+least, if your wife had no money in her own right. And then the children
+which you will add to our colony will cost something to bring up. If
+that fell on us alone, we should surely take care of them without a word
+of complaint; but the comfort of everybody would suffer, and your eldest
+children would bear their share of hardship. When families grow too
+large, if money does not keep pace, misery comes, no matter how bravely
+you bear up. This is what I wished to say, Germain; think it over,
+and try to make the widow Gu�rin like you; for her discretion and her
+dollars will help us now and make us feel easy about the future."
+
+"That is true, Father. I shall try to please her and to like her."
+
+"To do that you must go to find her, and see her."
+
+"At her own place? At Fourche? That is a great way from here, is it not?
+And we scarcely have time to run off at this season of the year."
+
+"When it is a question of a love-match you must make up your mind to
+lose time, but when it is a sensible marriage of two people, who take
+no sudden fancies and know what they want, it is very soon decided.
+To-morrow is Saturday; you will make your day's work a little shorter
+than usual. You must start after dinner about two o'clock. You will be
+at Fourche by nightfall. The moon rises early. The roads are good, and
+it is not more than three leagues distant. It is near Magnier. Besides,
+you will take the mare."
+
+"I had just as lief go afoot in this cool weather."
+
+"Yes, but the mare is pretty, and a suitor looks better when he comes
+well mounted. You must put on your new clothes and carry a nice present
+of game to Father Leonard. You will come from me and talk with him, pass
+all of Sunday with his daughter, and come back Monday morning with a yes
+or no."
+
+"Very well," answered Germain calmly, and yet he did not feel very calm.
+
+Germain had always lived soberly, as industrious peasants do. Married
+at twenty, he had loved but one woman in his life, and after her death,
+impulsive and gay as his nature was, he had never played nor trifled
+with another. He had borne a real sorrow faithfully in his heart, and
+it was not without misgiving nor without sadness that he yielded to his
+father-in-law; but that father had always governed the family wisely,
+and Germain, entirely devoted as he was to the common welfare and so,
+by consequence, to the head of the house, who represented it, could not
+understand that he might have wronged his own good sense and hurt the
+interests of all. Nevertheless, he was sad. Few days went by when he did
+not cry in secret, for his wife, and although loneliness began to weigh
+on him, he was more afraid of entering into a new marriage than desirous
+of finding a support in his sorrow. He had a vague idea that love might
+have consoled him by coming to him of a sudden, for this is the only way
+love can console. We never find it when we seek it; it comes over us
+unawares.
+
+This cold-blooded scheme of marriage that Father Maurice had opened to
+him, this unknown woman he was to take for his bride, perhaps even all
+that had been said to him of her virtue and good sense, made him pause
+to think. And he went away musing as men do whose thoughts are too few
+to divide into hostile factions, not scraping up fine arguments for
+rebellion and selfishness but suffering from a dull grief, submissive to
+ills from which there is no escape.
+
+Meanwhile, Father Maurice had returned to the farm, while Germain,
+between sunset and dark, spent the closing hour of the day in repairing
+gaps the sheep had made in the hedge of a yard near the farm-buildings.
+He lifted up the branches of the thorn-bushes and held them in place
+with clods of earth, whilst the thrushes chattered in the neighboring
+thicket and seemed to call to him to hurry, for they were eager to come
+and see his work as soon as he had gone.
+
+
+
+
+IV -- Mother Guillette
+
+FATHER MAURICE found at his house an old neighbor who had come to talk
+with his wife, seeking at the same time to secure a few embers to light
+her fire. Mother Guillette lived in a wretched hut two gunshots away
+from the farm. Still she was a willing and an orderly woman. Her poor
+dwelling was clean and neat, and the care with which her clothes were
+mended showed that she respected herself in the midst of her penury.
+
+"You have come to fetch your evening fire, Mother Guillette," said the
+old man to her. "Is there anything else you want?"
+
+"No, Father Maurice," answered she; "nothing for the present. I am no
+beggar, as you know, and I take care not to abuse the kindness of my
+friends."
+
+"That is very true. Besides, your friends are always ready to do you a
+service."
+
+"I was just talking to your wife, and I was asking her if Germain had
+finally decided to marry again."
+
+"You are no gossip," replied Father Maurice; "we can talk in your
+presence without having any foolish tale-bearing to fear. So I will tell
+my wife and you that Germain has made up his mind absolutely. To-morrow
+morning he starts for the farm at Fourche."
+
+"Good enough!" cried Mother Maurice; "poor child! God grant he may find
+a woman as good and true as he."
+
+"So he is going to Fourche?" remarked Mother Guillette; "how lucky that
+is! It is exactly what I want. And since you were just asking me
+if there were anything I wished for, I am going to tell you, Father
+Maurice, how you can do me a service."
+
+"Tell me what it is; we like to help you."
+
+"I wish Germain would be so kind as to take my daughter along with him."
+
+"Where? To Fourche?"
+
+"No, not to Fourche, but to Ormeaux. She is to stay there the rest of
+the year."
+
+"What!" exclaimed Mother Maurice, "are you going to separate from your
+daughter?"
+
+"She must go out to work and earn her living. I am sorry enough, and she
+is too, poor soul. We could not make up our minds to part Saint John's
+Day, but now that Saint Martin's is upon us, she finds a good place as
+shepherdess at the farms at Ormeaux. On his way home from the fair the
+other day, the farmer passed by here. He caught sight of my little Marie
+tending her three sheep on the common.
+
+"'You have hardly enough to do, my little girl,' said he; 'three sheep
+are not enough for a shepherdess: would you like to take care of a
+hundred? I will take you along. Our shepherdess has fallen sick. She is
+going back to her family, and if you will be at our farm before a week
+is over, you shall have fifty francs for the rest of the year up to
+Saint John's Day.'
+
+"The child refused, but she could not help thinking it over and telling
+me about it, when she came home in the evening, and found me downhearted
+and worried about the winter, which was sure to be hard and long; for
+this year the cranes and wild ducks were seen crossing the sky a whole
+month before they generally do. We both of us cried, but after a time
+we took heart. We knew that we could not stay together, since it is hard
+enough for one person to get a living from our little patch of ground.
+Then since Marie is old enough,--for she is going on to sixteen,--she
+must do like the rest, earn her own living and help her poor mother."
+
+"Mother Guillette," said the old laborer, "if it were only fifty francs
+you needed to help you out of your trouble, and save you from sending
+away your daughter, I should certainly find them for you, although
+fifty francs is no trifle for people like us. But in everything we must
+consult common sense as well as friendship. To be saved from want this
+year will not keep you from want in the future, and the longer your
+daughter takes to make up her mind, the harder you both will find it
+to part. Little Marie is growing tall and strong. She has not enough at
+home to keep her busy. She might get into lazy habits..."
+
+"Oh, I am not afraid of that!" exclaimed Mother Guillette. "Marie is as
+active as a rich girl at the head of a large family can be. She never
+sits still with her arms folded for an instant, and when we have no work
+to do, she keeps dusting and polishing our old furniture until it shines
+like a mirror. The child is worth her weight in gold, and I should much
+rather have her enter your service as a shepherdess than go so far away
+to people I don't know. You would have taken her at Saint John's Day;
+but now you have hired all your hands, and we cannot think of that till
+Saint John's Day next year."
+
+"Yes, I consent with all my heart, Guillette. I shall be very glad to
+take her. But in the mean time she will do well to learn her work, and
+accustom herself to obey others."
+
+"Yes, that is true, no doubt. The die is cast. The farmer at Ormeaux
+sent to ask about her this morning; we consented, and she must go. But
+the poor child does not know the way, and I should not like to send her
+so far alone. Since your son-in-law goes to Fourche to-morrow, perhaps
+he can take her. It seems that Fourche is close to her journey's end. At
+least, so they tell me, for I have never made the trip myself."
+
+"It is very near indeed, and my son will show her the way. Naturally, he
+might even take her up behind him on the mare. That will save her shoes.
+Here he comes for supper. Tell me, Germain, Mother Guillette's little
+Marie is going to become a shepherdess at Ormeaux. Will you take her
+there on your horse?"
+
+"Certainly," answered Germain, who, troubled as he was, never felt
+indisposed to do a kindness to his neighbor.
+
+In our community a mother would not think of such a thing as to trust
+a girl of sixteen to a man of twenty-eight. For Germain was really
+but twenty-eight, and although according to the notions of the
+country people he was considered rather old to marry, he was still the
+best-looking man in the neighborhood. Toil had not wrinkled and worn him
+as it does most peasants who have passed ten years in till-ing the soil.
+He was strong enough to labor for ten more years without showing signs
+of age, and the prejudices of her time must have weighed heavily on the
+mind of a young girl to prevent her from seeing that Germain had a fresh
+complexion, eyes sparkling and blue as skies in May, ruddy lips, fine
+teeth, and a body well shaped and lithe as a young horse that has never
+yet left his pasture.
+
+But purity of manners is a sacred custom in some districts far distant
+from the corrupted life of great cities, and amongst all the
+households of Belair, the family of Maurice was known to be honest and
+truth-loving. Germain was on his way to find a wife. Marie was a child,
+too young and too poor to be thought of in this light, and unless he
+were a heartless and a bad man he could not entertain one evil thought
+concerning her. Father Maurice felt no uneasiness at seeing him take the
+pretty girl on the crupper. Mother Guillette would have thought herself
+doing him a wrong had she asked him to respect her daughter as his
+sister. Marie embraced her mother and her young friends twenty times,
+and then mounted the mare in tears. Germain, sad on his own account,
+felt all the more sympathy for her sorrow, and rode away with a
+melancholy air, while all the people of the neighborhood waved good-by
+to Marie without a thought of harm.
+
+
+
+
+V -- Petit-Pierre
+
+THE gray was young, good-looking, and strong. She carried her double
+burden with ease, laying back her ears and champing her bit like the
+high-spirited mare she was. Passing in front of the pasture, she caught
+sight of her mother, whose name was the Old Gray as hers was the Young
+Gray, and she whinnied in token of good-by. The Old Gray came nearer
+the hedge, and striking her shoes together she tried to gallop along the
+edge of the field in order to follow her daughter; then seeing her fall
+into a sharp trot, the mare whinnied in her turn and stood in an uneasy
+attitude, her nose in the air and her mouth filled with grass that she
+had no thought of eating.
+
+"That poor beast always knows her offspring," said Germain, trying to
+keep Marie's thoughts from her troubles. "That reminds me, I never kissed
+Petit-Pierre before I started. The naughty boy was not there. Last night
+he wished to make me promise to take him along, and he wept for an hour
+in bed. This morning again, he tried everything to persuade me. Oh, how
+sly and coaxing he is! But when he saw that he could not gain his point,
+the young gentleman got into a temper. He went off to the fields, and I
+have not seen him all day."
+
+"I have seen him," said little Marie, striving to keep back her tears;
+"he was running toward the clearing with Soulas' children, and I felt
+sure that he had been away from home a long time, for he was hungry and
+was eating wild plums and blackberries. I gave him the bread I had for
+lunch, and he said, 'Thank you, dear Marie; when you come to our house,
+I will give you some cake.' He is a dear little child, Germain."
+
+"Yes, he is," answered the laborer; "and there is nothing I would not do
+for him. If his grandmother had not more sense than I, I could not have
+helped taking him with me, when I saw him crying as though his poor
+little heart would burst."
+
+"Then why did you not take him, Germain? He, would have been very little
+trouble. He is so good when you please him."
+
+"He would probably have been in the way in the place where I am going.
+At least Father Maurice thought so. On the other hand, I should have
+thought it well to see how they received him. For no one could help
+being kind to such a nice child. But at home they said that I must not
+begin by showing off all the cares of the household. I don't know why I
+speak of this to you, little Marie; you can't understand."
+
+"Oh, yes, I do; I know that you are going away to marry; my mother spoke
+to me about it, and told me not to mention it to a soul, either at home
+or at my destination, and you need not be afraid; I shall not breathe a
+word about it."
+
+"You are very right. For the deed is n't done yet. Perhaps I shall not
+suit this woman."
+
+"I hope you will, Germain; why should you not suit her?"
+
+"Who knows? I have three children, and that is a heavy burden for a
+woman who is not their mother."
+
+"Very true. But are not your children like other children?"
+
+"Do you think so?"
+
+"They are lovely as little angels, and so well brought up that you can't
+find better children."
+
+"There 's Sylvain. He is none too obedient."
+
+"He is so very little. He can't help being naughty. But he is very
+bright."
+
+"He is bright it is true, and very brave. He is not afraid of cows
+nor bulls, and if he were given his own way, he would be climbing on
+horseback already with his elder brother."
+
+"Had I been in your place, I would have taken the eldest boy along.
+Surely people would have liked you at once for having such a pretty
+child."
+
+"Yes, if a woman is fond of children. But if she is not."
+
+"Are there women who don't love children?"
+
+"Not many, I think, but still there are some, and that is what troubles
+me."
+
+"You don't know this woman at all, then?"
+
+"No more than you, and I fear that I shall not know her better after I
+have seen her. I am not suspicious. When people say nice things to me,
+I believe them, but more than once I have had good reason to repent, for
+words are not deeds."
+
+"They say that she is a very good woman."
+
+"Who says so? Father Maurice?"
+
+"Yes, your father-in-law."
+
+"That is all very well. But he knows her no more than I."
+
+"Well, you will soon see. Pay close attention, and let us hope that you
+will not be deceived."
+
+"I have it. Little Marie, I should be very much obliged if you would
+come into the house for a minute before you go straight on to Ormeaux.
+You are quick-witted; you have always shown that you are not stupid,
+and nothing escapes your notice. Should you see anything to rouse your
+suspicions, you must warn me of it very quietly."
+
+"Oh! no, Germain, I will not do that; I should be too much afraid of
+making a mistake; and, besides, if a word lightly spoken were to turn
+you against this marriage, your family would bear me a grudge, and I
+have plenty of troubles now without bringing any more on my poor dear
+mother."
+
+As they were talking thus, the gray pricked up her ears and shied; then
+returning on her steps, she approached the bushes, where she began to
+recognize something which had frightened her at first. Germain cast
+his eye over the thicket, and in a ditch, beneath the branches of a
+scrub-oak, still thick and green, he saw something which he took for a
+lamb.
+
+"The little creature is strayed or dead, for it does not move. Perhaps
+some one is looking for it; we must see."
+
+"It is not an animal," cried little Marie; "it is a sleeping child. It
+is your Petit-Pierre."
+
+"Heavens!" exclaimed Germain; "see the little scamp asleep so far away
+from home, and in a ditch where a snake might bite him!"
+
+He lifted up the child, who smiled as he opened his eyes and threw his
+arms about his father's neck, saying: "Dear little father, you are going
+to take me with you."
+
+"Oh, yes; always the same tune. What were you doing there, you naughty
+Pierre?"
+
+"I was waiting for my little father to go by. I was watching the road,
+and I watched so hard that I fell asleep."
+
+"And if I had passed by without seeing you, you would have been out of
+doors all night, and a wolf would have eaten you up."
+
+"Oh, I knew very well that you would see me," answered Petit-Pierre,
+confidently.
+
+"Well, kiss me now, bid me good-by, and run back quickly to the house,
+unless you wish them to have supper without you."
+
+"Are you not going to take me, then?" cried the little boy, beginning to
+rub his eyes to show that he was thinking of tears.
+
+"You know very well that grandpapa and grand-mama do not wish it," said
+Germain, fortifying himself behind the authority of his elders, like a
+man who distrusts his own.
+
+The child would not listen. He began to cry with all his might, saying
+that as long as his father was taking little Marie, he might just as
+well take him too. They replied that they must pass through great woods
+filled with wicked beasts who eat up little children. The gray would not
+carry three people; she had said so when they were starting, and in the
+country where they were going there was no bed and no supper for little
+boys. All these good reasons could not persuade Petit-Pierre; he threw
+himself on the ground, and rolled about, shrieking that his little
+father did not love him any more, and that if he did not take him he
+would never go back to the house at all, day or night.
+
+Germain had a father's heart, as soft and weak as a woman's. His-wife's
+death, and the care which he had been obliged to bestow all alone on his
+little ones, as well as the thought that these poor motherless children
+needed a great deal of love, combined to make him thus. So such a sharp
+struggle went on within him, all the more because he was ashamed of his
+weakness and tried to hide his confusion from little Marie, that the
+sweat started out on his forehead, and his eyes grew red and almost
+ready to weep. At last he tried to get angry, but as he turned toward
+little Marie in order to let her witness his strength of mind, he saw
+that the good girls face was wet with tears; all his courage forsook him
+and he could not keep back his own, scold and threaten as he would.
+
+"Truly your heart is too hard," said little Marie at last, "and for
+myself I know that I never could refuse a child who felt so badly. Come,
+Germain, let 's take him. Your mare is well used to carrying two people
+and a child, for you know that your brother-in-law and his wife, who is
+much heavier than I, go to market every Saturday with their boy on this
+good beast's back. Take him on the horse in front of you. Besides, I
+should rather walk on foot all alone than give this little boy so much
+pain."
+
+"Never mind," answered Germain, who was dying to allow himself to give
+way. "The gray is strong, and could carry two more if there were room on
+her back. But what can we do with this child on the way? He will be cold
+and hungry, and who will take care of him to-night and tomorrow, put
+him to bed, wash him, and dress him? I don't dare give this trouble to
+a woman I don't know, who will think, doubtless, that I am exceedingly
+free and easy with her to begin with."
+
+"Trust me, Germain, you will know her at once by the kindness or the
+impatience that she shows. If she does not care to receive your Pierre,
+I will take charge of him myself. I will go to her house and dress him,
+and I will take him to the fields with me to-morrow. I will amuse him
+all day long, and take good care that he does not want for anything."
+
+"He will tire you, my poor girl, and give you trouble. A whole day is a
+long time."
+
+"Not at all; it will give me pleasure; he will keep me company, and that
+will make me less sad the first day that I must pass in a new place. I
+shall fancy that I am still at home."
+
+Seeing that little Marie was pleading for her, the child seized upon her
+skirt and held it so tight that they must have hurt him in order to
+tear it away. When he perceived that his father was weakening, he took
+Marie's hand in both his tiny sunburned fists and kissed her, leaping
+for joy, and pulling her toward the mare with the burning impatience
+children feel in their desires.
+
+"Come along," said the young girl, lifting him in her arms; "let us try
+to quiet his poor little heart. It is fluttering like a little bird; and
+if you feel the cold when night comes on, tell me, my Pierre, and I will
+wrap you in my cape. Kiss your little father, and beg his pardon for
+being naughty. Tell him that you will never, never be so again. Do you
+hear?"
+
+"Yes, yes, provided that I always do just as he wishes. Is n't it
+so?" said Germain, drying the little boy's eyes with his handkerchief.
+"Marie, you are spoiling the little rascal. But really and truly, you
+are too good, little Marie. I don't know why you did not come to us
+as shepherdess last Saint John's Day. You would have taken care of my
+children, and I should much rather pay a good price for their sake than
+try to find a woman who will think, perhaps, she is doing me a great
+kindness if she does not detest them."
+
+"You must not look on the dark side of things," answered little Marie,
+holding the horse's bridle while Germain placed his son in front of the
+big pack-saddle covered with goatskin. "If your wife does not care for
+children, take me into your service next year, and you may be sure I
+shall amuse them so well that they will not notice anything."
+
+
+
+
+VI -- On the Heath
+
+"DEAR ME," said Germain, after they had gone a few steps farther, "what
+will they think at home when they miss the little man? The family will
+be worried, and will be looking everywhere for him."
+
+"You can tell the man who is mending the road up there that you are
+taking him along, and ask him to speak to your people."
+
+"That is very true, Marie; you don't forget anything. It never occurred
+to me that Jeannie must be there."
+
+"He lives close to the farm, and he will not fail to do your errand."
+
+When they had taken this precaution, Germain put the mare to a trot, and
+Petit-Pierre was so overjoyed that for a time he forgot that he had
+gone without his dinner; but the motion of the horse gave him a hollow
+feeling in his stomach, and at the end of a league, he began to gape and
+grow pale, and confessed that he was dying of hunger.
+
+"This is the way it begins," exclaimed Germain. "I was quite sure that
+we should not go far without this young gentleman crying with hunger or
+thirst."
+
+"I am thirsty, too!" said Petit-Pierre.
+
+"Very well, then, let 's go to Mother Rebec's tavern at Corlay, the
+sign of 'The Dawn'--a pretty sign, but a poor lodging. You will take
+something to drink, too, will you not, Marie?"
+
+"No, no; I don't want anything. I will hold the mare while you go in
+with the child."
+
+"But I remember, my good girl, that this morning you gave the bread from
+your own breakfast to my Pierre. You have had nothing to eat. You would
+not take dinner with us at home; you would do nothing but cry."
+
+"Oh, I was not hungry; I felt too sad, and I give you my word that even
+now I have no desire to eat."
+
+"You must oblige yourself to eat, little girl, else you will fall sick.
+We have a long way to go, and it will not do to arrive half-starved and
+beg for bread before we say how d' ye do. I shall set you a good example
+myself, although I am not very hungry: and I am sure that I can, for,
+after all, I did not eat any dinner. I saw you crying, you and your
+mother, and it made me feel sad. Come along. I am going to tie the gray
+at the door. Get down; I wish you to."
+
+All three entered the inn, and in less than fifteen minutes the fat,
+lame hostess was able to place before them a nice-looking omelette, some
+brown bread, and a bottle of light wine.
+
+Peasants do not eat quickly, and little Pierre had such a good appetite
+that a whole hour passed before Germain could think of starting out
+again. At first little Marie ate in order to be obliging; then little
+by little she grew hungry. For, at sixteen, a girl cannot fast for long,
+and country air is dictatorial.
+
+The kind words with which Germain knew how to comfort her and strengthen
+her courage, produced their effect. She tried hard to persuade herself
+that seven months would soon be over, and to think of the pleasure in
+store for her when she saw once more her family and her hamlet; for
+Father Maurice and Germain had both promised to take her into their
+service. But just as she began to cheer up and play with little Pierre,
+Germain was so unfortunate as to point out to her from the inn window
+the lovely view of the valley which can all be seen from this height,
+and which looks so happy and green and fertile.
+
+Marie looked and asked if the houses of Belair were in sight.
+
+"No doubt," said Germain, "and the farm, too, and even your house--see!
+that tiny gray spot not far from Godard's big poplar, below the belfry."
+
+"Ah, I see it," said the little girl; and then she began to cry.
+
+"I ought not to have made you think of it," said Germain. "I can do
+nothing but stupid things today. Come along, Marie; let 's start, and in
+an hour, when the moon rises, it will not be hot."
+
+They resumed their journey across the great heath, and for fear of
+tiring the young girl and the child by too rapid a trot, Germain did not
+make the gray go very fast. The sun had set when they left the road to
+enter the wood.
+
+Germain knew the way as far as Magnier, but he thought it would be
+shorter to avoid the Chantaloube road and descend by Presles and La
+S�pulture, a route he was not in the habit of taking on his way to the
+fair. He lost his way, and wasted more time before he reached the wood.
+Even then he did not enter it on the right side, although he did not
+perceive his mistake, so that he turned his back on Fourche, and took a
+direction higher up on the way to Ardente.
+
+He was prevented still further from finding his way by a thick mist
+which rose as the night fell; one of those mists which come on autumn
+evenings when the whiteness of the moonlight renders them more undefined
+and more treacherous. The great pools of water scattered through the
+glades gave forth a vapor so dense that when the gray crossed them,
+their presence was known only by a splashing noise, and the difficulty
+with which she drew her feet from the mud.
+
+At last they found a good straight road, and when they came to the end
+of it, and Germain tried to discover where he was, he saw that he was
+lost. For Father Maurice had told him, when he explained the way, that
+on leaving the wood he must descend a very steep hillside, cross a wide
+meadow, and ford the river twice. He had even warned him to cross this
+river carefully; for, early in the season, there had been great rains,
+and the water might still be higher than usual. Seeing neither hillside
+nor meadows, nor river, but a heath, level and white as a mantle of
+snow, Germain stopped, looked about for a house, and waited for a
+passer-by, but could find nothing to set him right. Then he retraced his
+steps and reentered the wood. But the mist thickened yet more, the moon
+was completely hidden, the roads were execrable, and the quagmires deep.
+Twice the gray almost fell. Her heavy load made her lose courage, and
+although she kept enough sagacity to avoid the tree-trunks, she could
+not prevent her riders from striking the great branches which overhung
+the road at the height of their heads and caused them great danger.
+In one of these collisions Germain lost his hat, and only recovered it
+after much difficulty. Petit-Pierre had fallen asleep, and, lying like
+a log in his father's arms, hampered him so that he could no longer hold
+up nor direct the horse.
+
+"I believe we are bewitched," exclaimed Germain, stopping; "for the
+wood is not large enough to get lost in, if a man is not drunk, and here
+we have been turning round and round for two hours at least, without
+finding a way out. The gray has but one idea in her head, and that is to
+get home. It is she who is deceiving me. If we wish to go home, we have
+only to give her the bit. But when we are perhaps but two steps from
+our journey's end, it would be foolish to give up and return such a long
+road; and yet I am at a loss what to do. I cant see sky or earth, and
+I am afraid that the child will catch the fever if we remain in this
+cursed fog, or that he will be crushed beneath our weight if the horse
+falls forward."
+
+"We must not persist longer," said little Marie. "Let 's dismount,
+Germain. Give me the child; I can carry him perfectly well, and I know
+better than you how to keep the cloak from falling open and leaving
+him exposed. You lead the mare by her bridle. Perhaps we shall see more
+clearly when we are nearer the ground."
+
+This precaution was of service only in saving them from a fall, for the
+fog hung low and seemed to stick to the damp earth.
+
+Their advance was painfully slow, and they were soon so weary that they
+halted when they reached a dry spot beneath the great oaks.
+
+Little Marie was in a violent sweat, but she uttered not a word of
+complaint, nor did she worry about anything. Thinking only of the child,
+she sat down on the sand and laid it upon her knees, while Germain
+explored the neighborhood, after having fastened the gray's reins to the
+branch of a tree.
+
+But the gray was very dissatisfied with the journey. She reared
+suddenly, broke the reins loose, burst her girths, and giving, by way of
+receipt, half a dozen kicks higher than her head, she started across the
+clearing, showing very plainly that she needed no one to show her the
+way home.
+
+"Well, here we are afoot," said Germain, after a vain attempt to catch
+the horse, "and it would do us no good now if we were on the good road,
+for we should have to ford the river on foot, and since these paths are
+filled with water, we may be sure that the meadow is wholly submerged.
+We don't know the other routes. We must wait until this fog clears. It
+can't last more than an hour or two; as soon as we can see clearly, we
+shall look about for a house, the first we come to near the edge of the
+wood. But for the present we can't stir from here. There is a ditch
+and a pond over there. Heaven knows what is in front of us, and what is
+behind us is more than I can say now, for I have forgotten which way we
+came."
+
+
+
+
+VII -- Underneath the Big Oaks
+
+"WELL, we must be patient, Germain," said little Marie. "We are not
+badly off on this little hillock. The rain does not pierce the leaves of
+these big oaks, and we can light a fire, for I can feel old stumps which
+stir readily and are dry enough to burn. You have a light, Germain, have
+you not? You were smoking your pipe a few minutes ago."
+
+"I did have; my tinderbox was in my bag on the saddle with the game that
+I was bringing to my bride that is to be, but that devilish mare has run
+away with everything, even with my cloak, which she will lose and tear
+to bits on every branch she comes to." "No, no, Germain; saddle and
+cloak and bag are all there on the ground at your feet. The gray burst
+her girths, and threw off everything as she ran away."
+
+"That's true, thank God," exclaimed the laborer; "if we can grope about
+and find a little dead wood, we shall be able to dry ourselves and get
+warm."
+
+"That 's not difficult," said little Marie; "dead wood always cracks
+when you step on it. But will you give me the saddle?"
+
+"What do you want of it?"
+
+"To make a bed for the child. No, not that way. Upside down. He will
+not roll off into the hollow, and it is still very warm from the horse's
+back. Prop it up all around with the stones that you see there."
+
+"I can't see a stone; you must have cat's eyes."
+
+"There, it is all done, Germain. Hand me your cloak so that you can wrap
+up his little feet, and throw my cape over his body. Just see if he is
+not as comfortable as though he were in his own bed, and feel how warm
+he is."
+
+"You certainly know how to take care of children, Marie."
+
+"I need not be a witch to do that; now get your tinderbox from your bag,
+and I will arrange the wood."
+
+"This wood will never catch fire; it is too damp."
+
+"You are always doubting, Germain. Don't you remember when you were a
+shepherd, and made big fires in the fields right in the midst of the
+rain?"
+
+"Yes, that is a knack that belongs to children who take care of sheep;
+but I was made to drive the oxen as soon as I could walk."
+
+"That is what has made your arms strong and your hands quick! Here, the
+fire is built; you shall see whether it does not burn. Give me the light
+and a handful of dry ferns. That is all right Now blow; you are not
+consumptive, are you?"
+
+"Not that I know of," said Germain, blowing like a smith's bellows. In
+an instant the flame leaped up, and throwing out a red glare, it rose
+finally in pale blue jets under the oak branches, battling with the fog,
+and gradually drying the atmosphere for ten feet around.
+
+"Now I am going to sit by the child, so that the sparks may not fall
+on him," said the young girl. "Pile on the wood and stir up the fire,
+Germain; we shall not catch cold nor fever here, I will answer for it."
+
+"Upon my word, you are a clever girl," said Germain; "and you know how
+to make a fire like a little fairy of the night. I feel quite revived,
+and my courage has come back again; for with my legs drenched up to the
+knees, and with the thought of staying this way till daylight, I was in
+a very bad temper just now."
+
+"And when people are in a bad temper they don't think of anything,"
+answered little Marie.
+
+"And are you never bad-tempered?"
+
+"No, never; what is the good of it?"
+
+"Oh, of course, there is no good; but how can you help it when you have
+troubles? Yet Heaven knows that you have not lacked them, my little
+girl; for you have not always been happy."
+
+"It is true that my mother and I have suffered. We have had sorrows, but
+we have never lost heart."
+
+"I should never lose heart, no matter how hard my work was," said
+Germain, "but poverty would make me very sad; for I have never wanted
+for anything. My wife made me rich, and I am rich still; I shall be
+so as long as I work on the farm; and that will be always, I hope. But
+everybody must suffer his share! I have suffered in another way."
+
+"Yes; you have lost your wife. That is very sad."
+
+"Is n't it?"
+
+"Oh! Germain, I have wept for her many a time. She was so very kind! But
+don't let us talk about her longer, for I shall burst out crying. All my
+troubles are ready to come back to me to-day."
+
+"It is true, she loved you dearly, little Marie. She used to make a
+great deal of you and your mother. Are you crying? Come, my girl, I
+don't want to cry...."
+
+"But you are crying, Germain! You are crying as hard as I. Why should
+a man be ashamed to weep for his wife? Don't let me trouble you. That
+sorrow is mine as well as yours."
+
+"You have a kind heart, Marie, and it does me good to weep with you. Put
+your feet nearer the fire; your skirts are all soaked, too, poor little
+girl. I am going to take your place by the boy. You move nearer the
+fire."
+
+"I am hot enough," said Marie; "and if you wish to sit down, take a
+corner of the cloak. I am perfectly comfortable."
+
+"The truth is that it is not so bad here," said Germain, as he sat down
+beside her. "Only I feel very hungry again. It is almost nine o'clock,
+and I have had such hard work in walking over these vile roads that I
+feel quite tired out. Are you not hungry, too, little Marie?"
+
+"I?--not at all. I am not accustomed like you to four meals a day, and
+I have been to bed so often without my supper that once more does not
+trouble me."
+
+"A woman like you is very convenient; she costs nothing," said Germain,
+smiling.
+
+"I am not a woman," exclaimed Marie, na�vely, without perceiving the
+direction the husbandman's ideas had taken. "Are you dreaming?"
+
+"Yes, I believe I must be dreaming," answered Germain. "Perhaps hunger
+is making my mind wander."
+
+"How greedy you are," answered she, brightening in her turn. "Well, if
+you can't live five or six hours without eating, have you not game in
+your bag and fire to cook it?"
+
+"By Jove, that's a good idea! But how about the present to my future
+father-in-law?"
+
+"You have six partridges and a hare! I suppose you do not need all of
+them to satisfy your appetite."
+
+"But how can we cook them without a spit or andirons. They will be
+burned to a cinder!"
+
+"Not at all," said little Marie; "I warrant that I can cook them for you
+under the cinders without a taste of smoke. Have you never caught larks
+in the fields, and cooked them between two stones? Oh! that is true--I
+keep forgetting that you have never been a shepherd. Come, pluck the
+partridge. Not so hard! You will tear the skin."
+
+"You might be plucking the other to show me how!"
+
+"Then you wish to eat two? What an ogre you are! They are all plucked. I
+am going to cook them."
+
+"You would make a perfect little sutler's girl, Marie, but unhappily you
+have no canteen, and I shall have to drink water from this pool!"
+
+"You would like some wine, would you not? Possibly you might prefer
+coffee. You imagine yourself under the trees at the fair. Call out the
+host. Some wine for the good husbandman of Belair!"
+
+"You little witch, you are making fun of me! Would not you drink some
+wine if you had it?"
+
+"I? At Mother Rebec's, with you to-night, I drank some for the second
+time in my life. But if you are very good, I shall give you a bottle
+almost full, and excellent too."
+
+"What? Marie, I verily believe you are a witch!"
+
+"Were you not foolish enough to ask for two bottles of wine at the inn?
+You and your boy drank one, and the other you set before me. I hardly
+drank three drops, yet you paid for both without looking."
+
+"What then?"
+
+"Why, I put the full one in my basket, because I thought that you or
+your child would be thirsty on the journey. And here it is."
+
+"You are the most thoughtful girl I have ever met. Although the poor
+child was crying when we left the inn, that did not prevent her from
+thinking of others more than of herself. Little Marie, the man who
+marries you will be no fool."
+
+"I hope not, for I am not fond of fools. Come, eat up your partridges;
+they are done to a turn; and for want of bread, you must be satisfied
+with chestnuts."
+
+"Where the deuce did you find chestnuts, too?"
+
+"It is extraordinary! All along the road I picked them off the branches
+as we went along, and filled my pockets."
+
+"And are they cooked, too?"
+
+"Where would my wits have been had I not had sense enough to put the
+chestnuts in the fire as soon as it was lighted? That is the way we
+always do in the fields."
+
+"So we are going to take supper together, little Marie. I want to
+drink your health and wish you a good husband, just the sort of a man
+that will suit you. Tell me what kind you want."
+
+"I should find that very difficult, Germain, for I have not thought
+about it yet."
+
+"What, not at all? Never?" said Germain, as he began to eat with a
+laborer's appetite, yet stopping to cut off the more tender morsels for
+his companion, who persisted in refusing them and contented herself with
+a few chestnuts.
+
+"Tell me, little Marie," he went on, seeing that she had no intention
+of answering him, "have you never thought of marrying? Yet you are old
+enough?"
+
+"Perhaps," she said, "but I am too poor. I need at least a hundred
+crowns to marry, and I must work five or six years to scrape them
+together."
+
+"Poor girl, I wish Father Maurice were willing to give me a hundred
+crowns to make you a present of."
+
+"Thank you kindly, Germain. What do you suppose people would say of me?"
+
+"What do you wish them to say of you? They know very well that I am too
+old to marry you. They would never believe that I--that you--"
+
+"Look, Germain, your child is waking up," said little Marie.
+
+
+
+
+VIII -- The Evening Prayer
+
+PETIT-PIERRE had raised his head and was looking about him with a
+thoughtful air.
+
+"Oh, that is the way he always does, whenever he hears the sound of
+eating," said Germain. "The explosion of a cannon would not rouse him,
+but if you work your jaws near him, he opens his eyes at once."
+
+"You must have been just like him at his age," said little Marie, with
+a sly smile. "See! my Petit-Pierre, you are looking for your canopy.
+To-night it is made all of green, my child; but your father eats his
+supper none the less. Do you wish to sup with him? I have not eaten your
+share; I thought that you might claim it."
+
+"Marie, I wish you to eat," cried the husbandman; "I shall not touch
+another morsel. I am a greedy glutton. You are depriving yourself for
+our sake. It is not fair. I am ashamed. It takes away all my appetite. I
+will not have my son eat his supper unless you take some too."
+
+"Leave us alone," said little Marie; "you have not the key to our
+appetites. Mine is tight shut to-day, but your Pierre's is as wide open
+as a little wolfs. Just see how he seizes his food. He will be a strong
+workman too, some day!"
+
+In truth, Petit-Pierre showed very soon whose son he was, and though
+scarcely awake and wholly at a loss to know where he was and how he
+had come there, he began to eat ravenously. As soon as his hunger was
+appeased, feeling excited as children do who break loose from their
+wonted habits, he had more wit, more curiosity, and more good sense than
+usual. He made them explain to him where he was, and when he found that
+he was in the midst of a forest, he grew a little frightened.
+
+"Are there wicked beasts in this forest?" he demanded of his father.
+
+"No, none at all. Don't be afraid."
+
+"Then you told a story when you said that if I went with you into the
+great forest, the wolves would carry me off."
+
+"Just see this logician," said Germain, embarrassed.
+
+"He is right," replied little Marie. "That is what you told him. He has
+a good memory, and has not forgotten. But, little Pierre, you must learn
+that your father never tells a story. We passed through the big forest
+whilst you were sleeping, and now we are in the small forest where there
+are no wicked beasts."
+
+"Is the little forest very far away from the big one?"
+
+"Far enough; besides, the wolves never go out of the big forest. And
+then, if some of them should come here, your father would kill them."
+
+"And you too, little Marie?"
+
+"Yes, we, too, for you would help also, my Pierre. You are not
+frightened, are you? You would beat them soundly?"
+
+"Yes, indeed, I would," said the child, proudly, as he struck a heroic
+attitude; "we would kill them."
+
+"There is nobody like you for talking to children and for making them
+listen to reason," said Germain to little Marie. "To be sure, it is
+not long ago since you were a small child yourself, and you have not
+forgotten what your mother used to say to you. I believe that the
+younger one is, the better one gets on with children. I am very much
+afraid that a woman of thirty who does not yet know what it is to be a
+mother, would find it hard to prattle to children and reason with them."
+
+"Why, Germain? I don't know why you have such a bad idea of this woman;
+you will change your mind."
+
+"The devil take the woman!" exclaimed Germain. "I wish I were going away
+from her forever. What do I want of a wife whom I don't know?"
+
+"Little father," said the child, "why is it that you speak so much of
+your wife to-day, since she is dead?"
+
+"Then you have not forgotten your poor, dear mother?"
+
+"No; for I saw her placed in a beautiful box of white wood, and my
+grandmother led me up to her to kiss her and say good-by. She was very
+white and very stiff, and every evening my aunt made me pray God that
+she might go to him in Heaven and be warm. Do you think that she is
+there now?"
+
+"I hope so, my child; but you must always pray. It shows your mother
+that you love her."
+
+"I am going to say my prayers," answered the boy. "I forgot them
+to-night. But I can't say them all alone, for I always forget something.
+Little Marie must help me."
+
+"Yes, my Pierre, I will help you," said the young girl. "Come and kneel
+down in my lap."
+
+The child knelt down on the girl's skirt. He clasped his little hands
+and began to say his prayers, at first with great care and earnestness,
+for he knew the beginning very well, then slowly and with more
+hesitation, and finally repeating word by word after Marie, when he came
+to that place in his prayer where sleep overtook him so invariably that
+he had never been able to learn the end. This time again the effort of
+close attention and the monotony of his own accent produced their wonted
+effect. He pronounced the last syllables with great difficulty, and only
+after they were thrice repeated.
+
+His head grew heavy and fell on Marie's breast; his hands unclasped,
+divided, and fell open on his knees. By the light of the camp-fire,
+Germain watched his little darling hushed at the heart of the young
+girl, who, as she held him in her arms and warmed his fair hair with
+her sweet breath, had herself fallen into a holy reverie, and prayed in
+quiet for the soul of Catherine.
+
+Germain was touched. He tried to express to little Marie the grateful
+esteem which he felt for her, but he could find no fitting words.
+
+He approached her to kiss his son, whom she held close to her breast,
+and he could scarcely raise his lips from little Pierre's brow.
+
+"You kiss too hard," said Marie, gently pushing away the husbandman's
+head. "You will wake him. Let me put him back to bed, for the boy has
+left us already for dreams of paradise."
+
+The child allowed Marie to lay him down, but feeling the goatskin on the
+saddle, he asked if he were on the gray. Then opening his big blue eyes,
+and keeping them fixed on the branches for a minute, he seemed to be
+dreaming, wide-awake as he was, or to be struck with an idea which had
+slipped his mind during the daytime, and only assumed a distinct form at
+the approach of sleep.
+
+"Little father," said he, "if you wish to give me a new mother, I hope
+it will be little Marie."
+
+And without waiting for an answer, he closed his eyes and slept.
+
+
+
+
+
+IX -- Despite the Cold
+
+LITTLE MARIE seemed to give no more heed to the child's odd words than
+to regard them as a proof of friendship. She wrapped him up with care,
+stirred the fire, and as the fog resting on the neighboring pool gave
+no sign of lifting, she advised Germain to lie near the fire and take a
+nap.
+
+"I see that you are sleepy already," said she, "for you don't say a word
+and you gaze into the fire, just as your little boy was doing."
+
+"It is you who must sleep," answered the husbandman, "and I will take
+care of both of you, for I have never felt less sleepy than I do now. I
+have fifty things to think of."
+
+"Fifty is a great many," said the little girl, with a mocking accent.
+"There are lots of people who would be delighted to have one."
+
+"Well, if I am too stupid to have fifty, I have one, at least, which has
+not left me for the past hour."
+
+"And I shall tell it to you as well as I told you those you thought of
+before."
+
+"Yes, do tell me if you know, Marie. Tell me yourself. I shall be glad
+to hear."
+
+"An hour ago," she answered, "your idea was to eat--and now it is to
+sleep."
+
+"Marie, I am only an ox-driver, but, upon my word, you take me for an
+ox. You are very perverse, and it is easy to see that you do not care to
+talk to me, so go to sleep. That will be better than to pick flaws in a
+man who is out of sorts."
+
+"If you wish to talk, let 's talk," said the girl, half reclining
+near the child and resting her head against the saddle. "You torment
+yourself, Germain, and you do not show much courage for a man. What
+would n't I say if I did n't do my best to fight my own troubles?"
+
+"Yes, that's very true, and that 's just what I am thinking of, my
+poor child. You are going to live, away from your friends, in a horrid
+country full of moors and fens, where you will catch the autumn fevers.
+Sheep do not pay well there, and this is always discouraging for a
+shepherdess if she means well. Then you will be surrounded by strangers
+who may not be kind to you and will not know how much you are worth. It
+makes me more sorry than I can tell you, and I have a great desire to
+take you home to your mother instead of going on to Fourche."
+
+"You talk very kindly, but there is no reason for your misgivings, my
+poor Germain. You ought not to lose heart on your friend's account, and
+instead of showing me the dark side of my lot, you should show me the
+bright side, as you did after lunch at Rebec's."
+
+"What can I do? That 's the way it appeared to me then, and now my ideas
+are changed. It is best for you to take a husband."
+
+"That cannot be, Germain, and as it is out of the question, I think no
+more about it."
+
+"Yet such a thing might happen. Perhaps if you told me what kind of a
+man you want, I might imagine somebody."
+
+"Imagining is not finding. For myself, I never imagine, for it does no
+good."
+
+"You are not looking for a rich man?"
+
+"Certainly not, for I am as poor as Job."
+
+"But if he were comfortably off, you would n't be sorry to have a good
+house, and good food, and good clothes, and to live with an honest
+family who would allow you to help your mother."
+
+"Oh, yes indeed! It is my own wish to help my mother."
+
+"And if this man were to turn up, you would not be too hard to please,
+even if he were not so very young."
+
+"Ah! There you must excuse me, Germain. That is just the point I insist
+on. I could never love an old man."
+
+"An old man, of course not; but a man of my age, for example!"
+
+"Your age is too old for me, Germain. I should like Bastien's age,
+though Bastien is not so good-looking as you."
+
+"Should you rather have Bastien, the swineherd?" said Germain,
+indignantly. "A fellow with eyes shaped like those of the pigs he
+drives!"
+
+"I could excuse his eyes, because he is eighteen."
+
+Germain felt terribly jealous.
+
+"Well," said he, "it's clear that you want Bastien, but, none the less,
+it 's a queer idea."
+
+"Yes, that would be a queer idea," answered little Marie, bursting into
+shouts of laughter, "and he would make a queer husband. You could gull
+him to your heart's content. For instance, the other day, I had picked
+up a tomato in the curate's garden. I told him that it was a fine, red
+apple, and he bit into it like a glutton. If you had only seen what a
+face he made. Heavens! how ugly he was!"
+
+"Then you don't love him, since you are making fun of him."
+
+"That would n't be a reason. But I don't like him. He is unkind to his
+little sister, and he is dirty." "Don't you care for anybody else?" "How
+does that concern you, Germain?" "Not at all, except that it gives me
+something to talk about. I see very well, little girl, that you have a
+sweetheart in your mind already."
+
+"No, Germain, you 're wrong. I have no sweetheart yet. Perhaps one may
+come later, but since I cannot marry until I have something laid by, I
+am destined to marry late in life and with an old man." "Then take an
+old man without delay." "No. When I am no longer young, I shall not
+care; for the present, it is different." "I see that I displease you,
+Marie; that's clear enough," said Germain, impatiently, and without
+stopping to weigh his words.
+
+Little Marie did not answer. Germain bent over her. She was sleeping.
+She had fallen back, overcome, stricken down, as it were, by slumber, as
+children are who sleep before they cease to babble.
+
+Germain was glad that she had not caught his last words. He felt that
+they were unwise, and he turned his back to distract his attention and
+change his thoughts.
+
+It was all in vain. He could neither sleep nor think of anything except
+the words he had just spoken. He walked about the fire twenty times; he
+moved away; he came back. At last, feeling himself tremble as though he
+had swallowed gunpowder, he leaned against the tree which sheltered the
+two children, and watched them as they slept.
+
+"I know not how it is," thought he; "I have never noticed that little
+Marie is the prettiest girl in the countryside. She has not much color,
+but her little face is fresh as a wild rose. What a charming mouth she
+has, and how pretty her little nose is! She is not large for her age,
+but she is formed like a little quail and is as light as a bird. I
+cannot understand why they made so much fuss at home over a big, fat
+woman with a bright red face. My wife was rather slender and pale, and
+she pleased me more than any one else. This girl is very frail, but she
+is healthy, and she is pretty to watch as a white kid. And then she has
+such a gentle, frank expression. You can read her good heart in her eyes
+even though they are closed in sleep. As to wit, I must confess she
+has more than ever my dear Catherine had, and she would never become
+wearisome. She is gay, wise, industrious, loving, and she is amusing. I
+don't know what more I could wish for....
+
+"But what is the use of thinking of all this?" Germain went on, trying
+to look in another direction. "My father-in-law would not hear of it,
+and all the family would think me mad! Besides, she would not have
+me herself, poor child! She thinks me too old; she told me so. She is
+unselfish, and does not mind poverty and worry, wearing old clothes, and
+suffering from hunger for two or three months every year, so long as she
+can satisfy her heart some day and give herself to the man she loves.
+She is right. I should do the same in her place, and even now, if I had
+my own way, instead of marrying a wife whom I don't care for, I would
+choose a girl after my own heart."
+
+The more Germain tried to compose himself by reasoning, the further he
+was from succeeding. He walked away a dozen steps, to lose himself in
+the fog; then, all of a sudden, he found himself on his knees beside the
+two sleeping children. Once he wished to kiss Petit-Pierre, who had
+one arm about Marie's neck, and made such a mistake that Marie felt a
+breath, hot as fire, cross her lips, and awaking, looked about her with
+a bewildered expression, totally ignorant of all that was passing within
+his mind.
+
+"I did n't see you, my poor children," said Germain, retreating rapidly.
+"I almost stumbled over you and hurt you."
+
+Little Marie was so innocent that she believed him, and fell asleep
+again. Germain walked to the opposite side of the fire, and swore to God
+that he would not stir until she had waked. He kept his word, but not
+without a struggle. He thought that he would go mad.
+
+At length, toward midnight, the fog lifted, and Germain could see the
+stars shining through the trees. The moon freed herself from the mist
+which had hidden her, and began to sow her diamonds over the damp moss.
+The trunks of the oak-trees remained in impressive darkness, but beyond,
+the white branches of the birch-trees seemed a long line of phantoms in
+their shrouds. The fire cast its reflection in the pool; and the frogs,
+growing accustomed to the light, hazarded a few shrill and uneasy
+notes; the rugged branches of the old trees, bristling with dim-colored
+lichens, crossed and intertwined themselves, like great gaunt arms,
+above the travelers' heads. It was a lovely spot, but so lonely and
+so sad that Germain, unable to endure it more, began to sing and throw
+stones into the water to forget the dread weariness of solitude. He was
+anxious also to wake little Marie, and when he saw her rise and look
+about at the weather, he proposed that they start on their journey.
+
+"In two hours," said he, "the approach of morning will chill the air so
+that we can't stay here in spite of our fire. Now we can see our way,
+and we shall soon find a house which will open its doors to us, or at
+least a barn where we can pass the rest of the night under shelter."
+
+Marie had no will of her own, and although she was longing to sleep, she
+made ready to follow Germain. The husbandman took his boy in his arms
+without awaking him, and beckoned Marie to come nearer, in order to
+cover her with his cloak. For she would not take her own mantle, which
+was wrapped about the child.
+
+When he felt the young girl so close to him, Germain, who for a time had
+succeeded in distracting his mind and raising his spirits, began to lose
+his head once more. Two or three times he strode ahead abruptly, leaving
+her to walk alone. Then seeing how hard it was for her to follow, he
+waited, drew her quickly to his side, and pressed her so tight that she
+was surprised, and even angry, though she dared not say so.
+
+As they knew not the direction whence they had come, they had no idea of
+that in which they were going. So they crossed the wood once more, and
+found themselves afresh before the lonely moor. Then they retraced their
+steps, and after much turning and twisting they spied a light across the
+branches.
+
+"Good enough! Here 's a house," exclaimed Germain. "And the people are
+already astir, for the fire is lighted. It must be very late."
+
+It was no house, but the camp-fire, which they had covered before they
+left, and which had sprung up in the breeze.
+
+They had tramped for two hours, only to find themselves at the very
+place from which they had started.
+
+
+
+
+X -- Beneath the Stars
+
+"THIS time I give up," said Germain, stamping I his foot. "We are
+bewitched, that is certain, and we shall not get away from here before
+broad day. The devil is in this place!"
+
+"Well, it's of no use to get angry," said Marie. "We must take what is
+given us. Let us make a big fire. The child is so well wrapped up that
+he is in no danger, and we shall not die from a single night out of
+doors. Where have you hidden the saddle, Germain? Right in the midst of
+the holly-bushes,--what a goose you are! It 's very convenient to get it
+from there!"
+
+"Stop, child; hold the boy while I pull his bed from the thorns. I did
+n't want you to scratch your hands."
+
+"It 's all done. Here 's the bed, and a few scratches are not
+saber-cuts," replied the brave girl.
+
+She proceeded to put the child to bed again, and Petit-Pierre was so
+sound asleep this time that he knew nothing of his last journey. Germain
+piled so much wood on the fire that the forest all about glowed with the
+light.
+
+Little Marie had come to the end of her powers, and although she did not
+complain, her legs would support her no longer. She was white, and her
+teeth chattered with cold and weakness. Germain took her in his arms to
+warm her. The uneasiness, the compassion, the tenderness of movement he
+could not repress, took possession of his heart and stilled his senses.
+As by a miracle his tongue was loosened, and every feeling of shame
+vanished.
+
+"Marie," said he, "I like you, and I am very sorry that you don't like
+me. If you would take me for your husband, there are no fathers, nor
+family, nor neighbors, nor arguments which could prevent me from giving
+myself to you. I know how happy you would make my children, and that you
+would teach them to love the memory of their mother, and with a quiet
+conscience I could satisfy the wishes of my heart. I have always been
+fond of you, and now I love you so well that were you to ask me to
+spend all my life in doing your pleasure, I would swear to do it on the
+instant. Please think how much I love you, and try to forget my age.
+Think that it is a wrong notion to believe that a man of thirty is old.
+Besides, I am but twenty-eight. A young girl is afraid that people will
+talk about her if she takes a man ten or twelve years older than she,
+simply because that is not the custom in our country, but I have heard
+say that in other countries people don't look at it in this light, and
+that they had rather allow a sensible man of approved courage to support
+a young girl, than trust her to a mere boy, who may go astray, and, from
+the honest fellow they thought him, turn into a good-for-nothing.
+And then years don't always make age. That depends on the health and
+strength a person has. When a man is used up by overwork and poverty,
+or by a bad life, he is old before twenty-five. While I--but Marie,
+you are not listening...." "Yes I am, Germain; I hear you perfectly,"
+answered little Marie, "but I am thinking over what my mother used to
+tell me so often: that a woman of sixty is to be pitied greatly when
+her husband is seventy or seventy-five and can no longer work to support
+her. He grows feeble, and it becomes her duty to nurse him at the very
+age when she begins to feel great need of care and rest herself, and so
+it is that the end comes in a garret."
+
+"Parents do well to say so, I admit," answered Germain, "but then
+they would sacrifice all their youth, the best years of their life,
+to calculating what will become of them at the age when a person is no
+longer good for anything, and when it is a matter of indifference which
+way death comes. But I am in no danger of starving in my old age. I am
+even going to lay by something, since I live with my wife's parents and
+spend nothing. And then, you see, I shall love you so well that I can
+never grow old. They say that when a man is happy he keeps sound, and I
+know well that in love for you, I am younger than Bastien; for he does
+not love you; he is too stupid, too much of a child to understand how
+pretty and how good you are, and how you were made for people to court.
+Do not hate me, Marie. I am not a bad man. I made my Catherine happy,
+and on her death-bed she swore before God that she had had only
+happiness of me, and she asked me to marry again. Her spirit must have
+spoken to her child to-night. Did you not hear the words he said? How
+his little lips quivered as his eyes stared upward, watching something
+that we could not see! He was surely looking at his mother, and it was
+she who made him say that he wished you to take her place."
+
+"Germain," answered Marie, amazed and yet thoughtful, "you speak
+frankly, and everything that you say is true. I am sure that I should do
+well to love you if it did not displease your parents too much. But what
+can I do? My heart does not speak for you. I am very fond of you, but
+though your age does not make you ugly, it makes me afraid. It seems as
+if you were some such relation to me, as an uncle or a godfather, that I
+must be respectful toward you, and that there might be moments when you
+would treat me like a little girl rather than like your wife and your
+equal. And perhaps my friends would make fun of me, and although it
+would be silly to give heed to that, I think that I should be a little
+sad on my wedding-day."
+
+"Those are but childish reasons, Marie; you speak like a child."
+
+"Yes, that is true; I am a child," said she, "and it is on that account
+I am afraid of too sensible a man. You must see that I am too young for
+you, since you just found fault with me for speaking foolishly. I can't
+have more sense than my age allows."
+
+"O Heavens! How unlucky I am to be so clumsy and to express so ill what
+I think!" cried Germain. "Marie, you don't love me. That is the long
+and short of it. You find me too simple and too dull. If you loved me
+at all, you would not see my faults so clearly. But you do not love me.
+That is the whole story."
+
+"That is not my fault," answered she, a little hurt that he was speaking
+with less tenderness. "I am doing my best to hear you, but the more I
+try the less I can get it into my head that we ought to be husband and
+wife."
+
+Germain did not answer. His head dropped into his hands, and little
+Marie could not tell whether he wept or sulked or was fast asleep. She
+felt uneasy when she saw him so cast down, and could not guess what was
+passing in his mind. But she dared not speak to him more, and as she
+was too astonished at what had passed to have any desire to sleep, she
+waited impatiently for dawn, tending the fire with care and watching
+over the child, whose existence Germain appeared to forget. Yet Germain
+was not asleep. He did not mope over his lot. He made no plans to
+encourage himself, nor schemes to entrap the girl. He suffered; he felt
+a great weight of grief at his heart. He wished that he were dead. The
+world seemed to turn against him, and if he could have wept at all, his
+tears would have come in floods. But mingled with his sorrow there was a
+feeling of anger against himself, and he felt choked, without the power
+or the wish to complain.
+
+When morning came, and the sounds of the country brought it to Germain's
+senses, he lifted his head from his hands and rose. He saw that little
+Marie had slept no more than he, but he knew no words in which to tell
+her of his anxiety. He was very discouraged. Hiding the gray's saddle
+once more in the thicket, he slung his sack over his shoulder and took
+his son by the hand.
+
+"Now, Marie," said he, "we are going to try to end our journey. Do you
+wish me to take you to Ormeaux?"
+
+"Let us leave the woods together," answered she, "and when we know where
+we are, we shall separate, and go our different ways."
+
+Germain did not answer. He felt hurt that the girl did not ask him to
+take her as far as Ormeaux, and he did not notice that he had asked her
+in a tone well fitted to provoke a refusal.
+
+After a few hundred steps, they met a wood-cutter, who pointed out the
+highroad, and told them that when they had crossed the plain, one
+must turn to the right, the other to the left, to gain their different
+destinations, which were so near together that the houses of Fourche
+were in plain sight from the farm of Ormeaux, and _vice versa_.
+
+When they had thanked him and passed on, the wood-cutter called them
+back to ask whether they had not lost a horse.
+
+"Yes," he said, "I found a pretty gray mare in my yard, where perhaps a
+wolf had driven her to seek refuge; my dogs barked the whole night long,
+and at daybreak I saw the mare under my shed. She is there now. Come
+along with me, and if you recognize her, you may take her."
+
+When Germain had given a description of the gray, and felt convinced
+that it was really she, he started back to find his saddle. Little Marie
+offered to take his child to Ormeaux, whither he might go to get him
+after he had introduced himself at Fourche.
+
+"He is rather dirty after the night that we have passed," said she. "I
+will brush his clothes, wash his pretty face, and comb his hair, and
+when he looks neat and clean, you can present him to your new family."
+
+"Who told you that I wish to go to Fourche?" answered Germain,
+petulantly. "Perhaps I shall not go."
+
+"But truly, Germain, it is your duty to go there. You will go there,"
+replied the girl.
+
+"You seem very anxious to have me married off, so that you may be quite
+sure that I shall not trouble you again?"
+
+"Germain, you must not think of that any more. It is an idea which came
+to you in the night, because this unfortunate mishap took away your
+spirits. But now you must come to your senses. I promise you to forget
+everything that you said to me, and not to breathe it to a soul."
+
+"Oh, say what you wish. It is not my custom to deny what I have spoken.
+What I told you was true and honest, and I shall not blush for it before
+anybody."
+
+"Yes, but if your wife were to know that just before you came you were
+thinking of another woman, it would prejudice her against you. So take
+care how you speak now. Don't look at me before everybody with such a
+rapt expression. Think of Father Maurice, who relies on your obedience,
+and who would be enraged at me if I were to turn you from his will.
+Good-by, Germain. I take Petit-Pierre in order to force you to go to
+Fourche. He is a pledge which I keep on your behalf."
+
+"So you want to go with her?" said the husbandman to his son, seeing
+that the boy had clasped Marie's hands and was following her resolutely.
+
+"Yes, father," answered the child, who had heard the conversation and
+understood after his own fashion the words spoken so unguardedly before
+him. "I am going away with my dearest little Marie. You shall come to
+find me when you have done marrying, but I wish Marie to be my little
+mother."
+
+"You see how much he wishes it," said Germain to the girl. "Listen to
+me, Petit-Pierre," he added. "I wish her to be your mother and to stay
+with you always. It is she who does not wish to. Try to make her grant
+you what she has denied me."
+
+"Don't be afraid, father, I shall make her say yes. Little Marie does
+everything that I wish."
+
+He walked away with the young girl. Germain stood alone, sadder and more
+irresolute than ever.
+
+
+
+
+XI -- The Belle of the Village
+
+AND after all, when he had brushed the dust of travel from his clothes
+and from his horse's harness, when he had mounted the gray, and when he
+had learned the road, he felt that there was no retreat and that he must
+forget that anxious night as though it had been a dangerous dream.
+
+He found Father Leonard seated on a trim bench of spinach-green. The six
+stone steps leading up to the door showed that the house had a cellar.
+The walls of the garden and of the hemp-field were plastered with lime
+and sand. It was a handsome house, and might almost have been mistaken
+for the dwelling of a bourgeois.
+
+Germain's future father-in-law came forward to meet him, and having
+plied him, for five minutes, with questions concerning his entire
+family, he added that conventional phrase with which one passer-by
+addresses another concerning the object of his journey: "So you are
+taking a little trip in this part of the country?"
+
+"I have come to see you," replied the husbandman, "to give you this
+little present of game with my father's compliments, and to tell you
+from him that you ought to know with what intentions I come to your
+house."
+
+"Oh, ho!" said Father Leonard, laughing and tapping his capacious
+stomach, "I see, I understand, I am with you, and," he added with a
+wink, "you will not be the only one to pay your court, young man. There
+are three already in the house dancing attendance like you. I never turn
+anybody away, and I should find it hard to say yes or no to any of them,
+for they are all good matches. Yet, on account of Father Maurice and for
+the sake of the rich fields you till, I hope that it may be you. But my
+daughter is of age and mistress of her own affairs. She will do as
+she likes. Go in and introduce yourself. I hope that you will draw the
+prize."
+
+"I beg your pardon," answered Germain, amazed to find himself an extra
+when he had counted on being alone in the field. "I was not aware that
+your daughter was supplied already with suitors, and I did not come to
+quarrel over her."
+
+"If you supposed that because you were slow in coming, my daughter would
+be left unprovided for, you were greatly mistaken, my son," replied
+Father Leonard with unshaken good humor. "Catherine has the wherewithal
+to attract suitors, and her only difficulty lies in choosing. But come
+in; don't lose heart. The woman is worth, a struggle."
+
+And pushing in Germain by the shoulders with boisterous gaiety, he
+called to his daughter as they entered the house:
+
+"So, Catherine, here is another!"
+
+This cordial but unmannerly method of introduction to the widow, in
+the presence of her other devotees, completed Germain's distress and
+embarrassment. He felt the awkwardness of his position, and stood for a
+few moments without daring to look upon the beauty and her court.
+
+The Widow Gu�rin had a good figure and did not lack freshness, but her
+expression and her dress displeased Germain the instant he saw her.
+She had a bold, self-satisfied look, and her cap, edged with three lace
+flounces, her silk apron, and her fichu of fine black lace were little
+in accord with the staid and sober widow he had pictured to himself.
+
+Her elaborate dress and forward manners inclined Germain to judge the
+widow old and ugly, although she was certainly not either. He thought
+that such finery and playful manners might well suit little Marie's
+years and wit, but that the widow's fun was labored and over bold, and
+that she wore her fine clothes in bad taste.
+
+The three suitors were seated at a table loaded with wines and meats
+which were spread out for their use throughout the Sunday morning; for
+Father Leonard liked to show off his wealth, and the widow was not sorry
+to display her pretty china and keep a table like a rich lady. Germain,
+simple and unsuspecting as he was, watched everything with a penetrating
+glance, and for the first time in his life he kept on the defensive when
+he drank. Father Leonard obliged him to sit down with his rivals, and
+taking a chair opposite he treated him with great politeness, and talked
+to him rather than to the others.
+
+The present of game, despite the breach Germain had made on his own
+account, was still plenteous enough to produce its effect. The widow
+did not look unaware of its presence, and the suitors cast disdainful
+glances in its direction.
+
+Germain felt ill at ease in this company, and did not eat heartily.
+Father Leonard poked fun at him.
+
+"You look very melancholy," said he, "and you are ill-using your glass.
+You must not allow love to spoil your appetite, for a fasting lover can
+make no such pretty speeches as he whose ideas are brightened with a
+drop of wine."
+
+Germain was mortified at being thought already in love, and the
+artificial manner of the widow, who kept lowering her eyes with a
+smile as a woman does who is sure of her calculations, made him long to
+protest against his pretended surrender; but fearing to appear uncivil,
+he smiled and held his peace.
+
+He thought the widow's beaus, three bumpkins. They must have been rich
+for her to admit of their pretensions. One was over forty, and fat as
+Father Leonard; another had lost an eye, and drank like a sot. The
+third was a young fellow, and nice-looking too; but he kept insisting on
+displaying his wit, and would say things so silly that they were
+painful to hear. Yet the widow laughed as though she admired all his
+foolishness, and made small proof of her good taste thereby. At first
+Germain thought her infatuated with him, but soon he perceived that
+he himself was especially encouraged, and that they wished him to make
+fresh advances. For this reason he felt an increasing stiffness and
+severity which he took no pains to conceal.
+
+The time came for mass, and they rose from table to go thither in
+company. It was necessary to walk as far as Mers, a good half-league
+away, and Germain was so tired that he longed to take a nap before they
+went; but he was not in the habit of missing mass, and he started with
+the others.
+
+The roads were filled with people, and the widow marched proudly along,
+escorted by her three suitors, taking an arm, first of one and then of
+another, and carrying her head high with an air of importance. She was
+eager to display the fourth to the eyes of the passers-by; but Germain
+felt so ridiculous to be dragged along in the train of a petticoat
+where all the world might see, that he kept at a respectable distance,
+chatting with Father Leonard, and succeeded in occupying his attention
+so well that they did not look at all as if they belonged to the party.
+
+
+
+
+XII -- The Master
+
+WHEN they reached the village, the widow halted to allow them to catch
+up. She was bent upon making her entry with all her train; but Germain,
+denying her this pleasure, deserted Father Leonard, and after conversing
+with several acquaintances, he entered the church by another door. The
+widow was vexed.
+
+When mass was over, she made her appearance in triumph on the lawn,
+where dancing was going on, and she began her dance with her three
+lovers in turn. Germain watched her and saw that she danced well, but
+with affectation.
+
+"So, you don't ask my daughter?" said Leonard, tapping him on the
+shoulder. "You are too easily frightened."
+
+"I have not danced since I lost my wife," answered the husbandman.
+
+"But now that you are looking for another, mourning 's over in heart as
+well as in clothes."
+
+"That 's no reason, Father Leonard. Besides, I am too old and I don't
+care for dancing."
+
+"Listen," said Father Leonard, drawing him toward a retired corner,
+"when you entered my house you were vexed to see the place already
+besieged, and I see that you are very proud. But that is not reasonable,
+my boy. My daughter is used to a great deal of attention, particularly
+since she left off her mourning two years ago, and it is not her place
+to lead you on."
+
+"Has your daughter been thinking of marrying for two years already
+without making her choice?" asked Germain.
+
+"She does n't wish to hurry, and she is right. Although she has lively
+manners, and although you may not think that she reflects a great deal,
+she is a woman of excellent common sense, and knows very well what she
+is about."
+
+"It does not appear to me so," said Germain ingenuously, "for she has
+three suitors in her train, and if she knew her own mind, there are two
+of them, at least, whom she would find superfluous and request to stay
+at home."
+
+"Why, Germain, you don't understand at all. She does n't wish the old
+man, nor the blind man, nor the young man, I am quite certain; yet if
+she were to turn them off, people would think that she wished to remain
+a widow, and nobody else would come."
+
+"Oh, I see. These three are used for a guide-post."
+
+"As you like. What is the harm if they are satisfied?"
+
+"Every man to his taste," said Germain.
+
+"I see that yours is different. Now supposing that you are chosen, then
+they would leave the coast clear."
+
+"Yes, supposing! and meanwhile how much time should I have to whistle?"
+
+"That depends on your persuasive tongue, I suppose. Until now, my
+daughter has always thought that she would pass the best part of her
+life while she was being courted, and she is in no hurry to become the
+servant of one man when she can order so many others about. So she will
+please herself as long as the game amuses her; but if you please her
+more than the game, the game will cease. Only you must not lose courage.
+Come back every Sunday, dance with her, let her know that you are
+amongst her followers, and if she finds you more agreeable and better
+bred than the others, some fine day she will tell you so, no doubt."
+
+"Excuse me, Father Leonard. Your daughter has the right to do as she
+pleases, and it is not my business to blame her. If I were in her place,
+I should do differently. I should be more frank, and should not waste
+the time of men who have, doubtless, something better to do than dancing
+attendance on a woman who makes fun of them. Still, if that is what
+amuses her and makes her happy, it is no affair of mine. Only there is
+one thing I must tell you which is a little embarrassing, since you have
+mistaken my intentions from the start, for you are so sure of what is
+not so, that you have given me no chance to explain. You must know,
+then, that I did not come here to ask for your daughter in marriage, but
+merely to buy a pair of oxen which you are going to take to market next
+week, and which my father-in-law thinks will suit him."
+
+"I understand, Germain," answered Leonard very calmly; "you changed your
+plans when you saw my daughter with her admirers. It is as you please.
+It seems that what attracts some people repels others, and you
+are perfectly welcome to withdraw, for you have not declared your
+intentions. If you wish seriously to buy my cattle, come and see them in
+the pasture, and whether we make a bargain or not, you will come back to
+dinner with us before you return."
+
+"I don't wish to trouble you," answered Germain. "Perhaps you have
+something to do here. I myself am tired of watching the dancing and
+standing idle. I will go to see your cattle, and I will soon join you at
+your house."
+
+Then Germain made his escape, and walked away toward the meadows where
+Leonard had pointed out to him some of his cattle. It was true that
+Father Maurice intended to buy, and Germain thought that if he were
+to bring home a fine pair of oxen at a reasonable price, he might more
+easily receive a pardon for wilfully relinquishing the purpose of his
+journey. He walked rapidly, and soon found himself at some distance from
+Ormeaux. Then of a sudden, he felt a desire to kiss his son and to see
+little Marie once again, although he had lost all hope and even had
+chased away the thought that he might some day owe his happiness to her.
+Everything that he had heard and seen: this woman, flirtatious and vain;
+this father, at once shrewd and short-sighted, encouraging his daughter
+in habits of pride and untruth; this city luxury, which seemed to him a
+transgression against the dignity of country manners; this time wasted
+in foolish, empty words; this home so different from his own; and above
+all, that deep uneasiness which comes to a laborer of the fields when
+he leaves his accustomed toil: all the trouble and annoyance of the past
+few hours made Germain long to be with his child and with his little
+neighbor. Even had he not been in love, he would have sought her to
+divert his mind and raise his spirits to their wonted level.
+
+But he looked in vain over the neighboring meadows. He saw neither
+little Marie nor little Pierre, and yet it was the hour when shepherds
+are in the fields. There was a large flock in a pasture. He asked of
+a young boy who tended them whether the sheep belonged to the farm of
+Ormeaux.
+
+"Yes," said the child.
+
+"Are you the shepherd? Do boys tend the flocks of the farm, amongst
+you?"
+
+"No, I am taking care of them to-day, because the shepherdess went away.
+She was ill."
+
+"But have you not a new shepherdess, who came this morning?"
+
+"Yes, surely; but she, too, has gone already."
+
+"What! gone? Did she not have a child with her?"
+
+"Yes, a little boy who cried. They both went away after they had been
+here two hours."
+
+"Went away! Where?"
+
+"Where they came from, I suppose. I did n't ask them."
+
+"But why did they go away?" asked Germain, growing more and more uneasy.
+
+"How the deuce do I know?"
+
+"Did they not agree about wages? Yet that must have been settled
+before."
+
+"I can tell you nothing about it I saw them come and go, nothing more."
+
+Germain walked toward the farm and questioned the farmer. Nobody could
+give him an explanation; but after speaking with the farmer, he felt
+sure that the girl had gone without saying a word, and had taken the
+weeping child with her.
+
+"Can they have been ill-treating my son?" cried Germain.
+
+"It was your son, then? How did he happen to be with the little girl?
+Where do you come from, and what is your name?"
+
+Germain, seeing that after the fashion of the country they were
+answering him with questions, stamped his foot impatiently, and asked to
+speak with the master.
+
+The master was away. Usually, he did not spend the whole day when he
+came to the farm. He was on horseback, and he had ridden off to one of
+his other farms.
+
+"But, honestly," said Germain, growing very anxious, "can't you tell me
+why this girl left?"
+
+The farmer and his wife exchanged an odd smile. Then the former answered
+that he knew nothing, and that it was no business of his. All that
+Germain could learn was that both girl and child had started off toward
+Fourche. He rushed back to Fourche. The widow and her lovers were still
+away; so was Father Leonard. The maid told him that a girl and a child
+had come to ask for him, but that as she did not know them, she did not
+wish to let them in, and had advised them to go to Mers.
+
+"And why did you refuse to let them in?" said Germain, angrily. "People
+are very suspicious in this country, where nobody opens the door to a
+neighbor."
+
+"But you see," answered the maid, "in a house as rich as this, I
+must keep my eyes open. When the master is away, I am responsible for
+everything, and I cannot open the door to the first person that comes
+along."
+
+"It is a bad custom," said Germain, "and I had rather be poor than
+to live in constant fear like that. Good-by to you, young woman, and
+good-by to your vile country."
+
+He made inquiries at the neighboring house. The shepherdess and child
+had been seen. As the boy had left Belair suddenly, carelessly dressed,
+with his blouse torn, and his little lambskin over his shoulders, and
+as little Marie was necessarily poorly clad at all times, they had been
+taken for beggars. People had offered them bread. The girl had accepted
+a crust for the child, who was hungry, then she had walked away with him
+very quickly, and had entered the forest.
+
+Germain thought a minute, then he asked whether the farmer of Ormeaux
+had not been at Fourche.
+
+"Yes," they answered, "he passed on horseback a few seconds after the
+girl."
+
+"Was he chasing her?"
+
+"Oh, so you understand?" answered the village publican, with a laugh.
+"Certain it is that he is the devil of a fellow for running after girls.
+But I don't believe that he caught her; though, after all, if he had
+seen her--"
+
+"That is enough, thank you!" And he flew rather than ran to Leonard's
+stable. Throwing the saddle on the gray's back, he leaped upon it, and
+set off at full gallop toward the wood of Chanteloube.
+
+His heart beat hard with fear and anger; the sweat poured down his
+forehead; he spurred the mare till the blood came, though the gray
+needed no pressing when she felt herself on the road to her stable.
+
+
+
+
+XIII -- The Old Woman
+
+GERMAIN came soon to the spot where he had passed the night on the
+border of the pool. The fire was smoking still. An old woman was
+gathering the remnants of the wood little Marie had piled there. Germain
+stopped to question her. She was deaf and mistook his inquiries.
+
+"Yes, my son," said she, "this is the Devil's Pool. It is an evil spot,
+and you must not approach it without throwing in three stones with your
+left hand, while you cross yourself with the right. That drives away the
+spirits. Otherwise trouble comes to those who go around it."
+
+"I am not asking about that," said Germain, moving nearer her, and
+screaming at the top of his lungs. "Have you seen a girl and a child
+walking through the wood?"
+
+"Yes," said the old woman, "a little child was drowned there."
+
+Germain shook from head to foot; but happily the hag added:
+
+"That happened a long time ago. In memory of the accident they raised
+a handsome cross there. But one stormy night, the bad spirits threw it
+into the water. You can still see one end of it. If anybody were unlucky
+enough to pass the night here, he could never find his way out before
+daylight. He must walk and walk, and though he went two hundred leagues
+into the forest, he must always return to the same place."
+
+The peasant's imagination was aroused in spite of himself, and the
+thought of the evils that must come in order that the old woman's
+assertions might be vindicated, took so firm a hold of his mind that he
+felt chilled through and through. Hopeless of obtaining more news, he
+remounted, and traversed the woods afresh, calling Pierre with all his
+might, whistling, cracking his whip, and snapping the branches that the
+whole forest might re�cho with the noise of his coming; then he
+listened for an answering voice, but he heard no sound save the cowbells
+scattered through the glades, and the wild cries of the swine as they
+fought over the acorns.
+
+At length Germain heard behind him the noise of a horse following in
+his traces, and a man of middle age, dark, sturdy, and dressed after the
+city fashion, called to him to stop. Germain had never seen the farmer
+of Ormeaux, but his instinctive rage told him at once that this was
+the man. He turned, and eyeing him from head to foot, waited for him to
+speak.
+
+"Have not you seen a young girl of fifteen or sixteen go by with a small
+boy?" asked the farmer, with an assumed air of indifference, although he
+was evidently ill at ease.
+
+"What do you want of her?" answered Germain, taking no pains to conceal
+his anger.
+
+"I might tell you that that is none of your business, my friend. But
+as I have no reasons for secrecy, I shall tell you that she is a
+shepherdess whom I engaged for a year, before I knew her. When I saw
+her, she looked too young and frail to work on the farm. I thanked her,
+but I wished to pay the expenses of her short journey, and while my back
+was turned, she went off in a huff. She was in such a hurry that she
+forgot even some of her belongings and her purse, which has certainly
+not much in it, probably but a few pennies; but since I was going in
+this direction, I hoped to meet her, and give her back the things which
+she left behind, as well as what I owe her."
+
+Germain had too honest a heart not to pause at hearing a story which,
+however unlikely, was not impossible. He fastened his penetrating gaze
+on the farmer, who submitted to the examination with a plentiful supply
+of impudence or of good faith.
+
+"I wish to get at the bottom of this matter," said Germain; "and,"
+continued he, suppressing his indignation, "the girl lives in my
+village. I know her. She can't be far away. Let 's ride on together; we
+shall find her, no doubt."
+
+"You are right," said the farmer; "let's move on; but if we do not find
+her before we reach the end of this road, I shall give up, for I must
+turn off toward Ardentes."
+
+"Oh, oh!" thought the peasant, "I shall not part with you, even if I
+have to follow you around the 'Devil's Pool for twenty-four hours."
+
+"Stop," said Germain suddenly, fixing his eyes on a clump of broom which
+waved in a peculiar manner. "Halloa! halloa! Petit Pierre, is that you,
+my child?"
+
+The boy recognized his father's voice, and came out from the broom
+leaping like a young deer; but when he saw Germain in company with the
+farmer, he stopped dismayed, and stood irresolute. "Come, my Pierre,
+come. It is I," cried the husbandman, as he leaped from his horse and
+ran toward his boy to take him in his arms; "and where is little Marie?"
+
+"She is hiding there, because she is afraid of that dreadful black man,
+and so am I."
+
+"You need n't be afraid. I am here. Marie, Marie. It is I."
+
+Marie crept toward them, but the moment she saw Germain with the farmer
+close behind, she sprang forward, and throwing herself into his arms,
+clung to him as a daughter to her father.
+
+"Oh, my brave Germain!" she cried, "you will defend me. I am not afraid
+when you are near."
+
+Germain shuddered. He looked at Marie. She was pale; her clothes were
+torn by the thorns which had scratched her as she passed, rushing toward
+the brake like a stag chased by the hunters. But neither shame nor
+despair were in her face.
+
+"Your master wishes to speak to you," said he, his eyes fixed on her
+features.
+
+"My master!" she exclaimed fiercely; "that man is no master of mine, and
+he never shall be. You, Germain, you are my master. I want you to take
+me home with you. I will be your servant for nothing."
+
+The farmer advanced, feigning impatience. "Little girl," said he, "you
+left something behind at the farm, which I am bringing back to you."
+
+"No, you are not, sir," answered little Marie. "I did n't forget
+anything, and I have nothing to ask of you."
+
+"Listen a moment," returned the farmer. "It 's I who have something to
+tell you. Come with me. Don't be afraid. It's only a word or two."
+
+"You may say them aloud. I have no secrets with you."
+
+"At any rate, do take your money."
+
+"My money? You owe me nothing, thank God!"
+
+"I suspected as much," said Germain under his breath, "but I don't care,
+Marie. Listen to what he has to say to you, for--I am curious to know.
+You can tell me afterward. Go up to his horse. I shall not lose sight of
+you."
+
+Marie took three steps toward the farmer. He bent over the pommel of his
+saddle, and lowering his voice he said:
+
+"Little girl, here is a bright golden louis for you. Don't say anything
+about it; do you hear? I shall say that I found you too frail to work
+on my farm. There will be no more talk about that. I shall be passing by
+your house one of these days; and if you have not said anything, I will
+give you something more; and then if you are more sensible, you have
+only to speak. I will take you home with me, or I will come at dusk and
+talk with you in the meadows. What present would you like me to bring
+you?"
+
+"Here, sir, is the present I have for you," answered little Marie,
+aloud, as she threw the golden louis in his face with all her might. "I
+thank you heartily, and I beg that if you come anywhere near our house,
+you will be good enough to let me know. All the boys in the neighborhood
+will go out to welcome you, because, where I live, we are very fond of
+gentlemen who try to make love to poor girls. You shall see. They will
+be on the lookout for you."
+
+"You lie with your dirty tongue," cried the farmer, raising his stick
+with a dangerous air. "You wish to make people believe what is not so,
+but you shall never get a penny out of me. We know what kind of a girl
+you are."
+
+Marie drew back, frightened, and Germain sprang to the bridle of the
+farmer's horse and shook it violently.
+
+"I understand now," said he; "it is easy to see what is going on. Get
+down, my man, get down; I want to talk to you."
+
+The farmer was not eager to take up the quarrel. Anxious to escape,
+he set spurs to his horse and tried to loosen the peasant's grasp by
+striking down his hands with a cane; but Germain dodged the blow, and
+seizing hold of his antagonist's leg, he unseated him and flung him
+to the earth. The farmer regained his feet, but although he defended
+himself vigorously, he was knocked down once more. Germain held him to
+the ground. Then he said:
+
+"Poor coward, I could thrash you if I wished. But I don't want to do
+you an injury, and, besides, no amount of punishment would help your
+conscience--but you shall not stir from this spot until you beg the
+girl's pardon, on your knees."
+
+The farmer understood this sort of thing, and wished to take it all as a
+joke. He made believe that his offense was not serious, since it lay
+in words alone, and protested that he was perfectly willing to ask her
+pardon, provided he might kiss the girl afterward. Finally, he proposed
+that they go and drink a pint of wine at the nearest tavern, and so part
+good friends.
+
+"You are disgusting!" answered Germain, rubbing his victim's head in the
+dirt, "and I never wish to see your nasty face again. So blush, if you
+are able, and when you come to our village, you had better slink along
+Sneak's Alley."*
+
+He picked up the farmer's holly-stick, broke it over his knee to show
+the strength of his wrists, and threw away the pieces with disgust Then
+giving one hand to his son and the other to little Marie, he walked
+away, still trembling with anger.
+
+* This is the road, which, diverging from the principal street at the
+entrance of villages, makes a circuit about them.. Persons who are in
+dread off receiving some well deserved insult, are supposed to take this
+route to escape attention.
+
+
+
+
+XIV -- The Return to the Farm
+
+AT the end of fifteen minutes they had left the heath behind them.
+They trotted along the highroad, and the gray whinnied at each familiar
+object. Petit-Pierre told his father as much as he could understand of
+what had passed.
+
+"When we reached the farm," said he, "that man came to speak to my Marie
+in the fold where we had gone to see the pretty sheep. I had climbed
+into the manger to play, and that man did not see me. Then he said good
+morning to Marie, and he kissed her."
+
+"You allowed him to kiss you, Marie?" said Germain, trembling with
+anger.
+
+"I thought it was a civility, a custom of the place to new-comers, just
+as at your farm the grandmother kisses the young girls who enter her
+service to show that she adopts them and will be a mother to them."
+
+"And next," went on little Pierre, who was proud to have an adventure to
+tell of, "_that man_ told you something wicked, which you have told me
+never to repeat and not even remember; so I forgot it right away. Still,
+if father wishes, I will tell him what it was--"
+
+"No, Pierre, I don't wish to hear, and I don't wish you ever to think of
+it again."
+
+"Then I will forget it all over again," replied the child. "Next, _that
+man_ seemed to be growing angry because Marie told him that she was
+going away. He told her he would give her whatever she wanted,--a
+hundred francs! And my Marie grew angry too. Then he came toward her as
+if he wished to hurt her. I was afraid, and I ran to Marie and cried.
+Then _that man_ said: 'What 's that? Where did that child come from? Put
+it out,' and he raised his cane to beat me. But my Marie prevented him,
+and she spoke to him this way: 'We will talk later, sir; now I must take
+this child back to Fourche, and then I shall return.' And as soon as
+he had left the fold, my Marie spoke to me this way: 'We must run, my
+Pierre; we must get away as quickly as we can, for this is a wicked
+man and he is trying to do us harm.' Then when we had gone back of the
+farm-houses, we crossed a little meadow, and we went to Fourche to find
+you. But you were not there, and they would n't let us wait. And then
+_that man_, riding his black horse, came behind us, and we ran on as
+fast as we could and hid in the woods. And then he followed us, and
+when we heard him coming, we hid again. And then, when he had passed,
+we began to run toward home, and then you came and found us, and that is
+how it all happened. I have n't forgotten anything, have I, my Marie?"
+
+"No, my Pierre, that is the whole truth. Now, Germain, you must be my
+witness, and tell everybody in the village that if I did not stay there
+it was not from want of courage and industry."
+
+"And, Marie, I want to ask of you whether a man of twenty-eight is too
+old when there is a woman to be defended and an insult to be revenged.
+I should like to know whether Bastien or any other pretty boy, ten years
+better off than I, would not have been knocked to pieces by _that man_,
+as Petit-Pierre says. What do you think?"
+
+"I think, Germain, that you have done me a great service, and that I
+shall be grateful all my life."
+
+"Is that all?"
+
+"Little father," said the child, "I forgot to ask little Marie what I
+promised. I have not had time yet, but I will speak to her at home, and I
+will speak to my grandmother too."
+
+The child's promise set Germain to thinking He must explain his conduct
+to his family and give his objections to the widow Guam, and all the
+while conceal the true reasons which had made him so judicious and so
+decided. When a man is proud and happy, it seems an easy task to thrust
+his happiness upon others, but to be repulsed on one side and blamed on
+the other is not a very pleasant position.
+
+Fortunately, Petit-Pierre was fast asleep when they reached the farm,
+and Germain put him to bed undisturbed. Then he began upon all sorts of
+explanations, Father Maurice, seated on a three-legged stool before the
+door, listened with gravity; and, although he was ill-content with
+the result of the journey, when Germain told him about the widow's
+systematic coquetry, and demanded of his father-in-law whether he had
+the time to go and pay his court fifty-two Sundays in the year at the
+risk of being dismissed in the end, the old man nodded his head in
+assent and answered: "You were not wrong, Germain; that could never be."
+And then, when Germain described how he had been obliged to bring back
+little Marie, with the utmost haste, in order to protect her from the
+insults or perhaps from the violence of a wicked master, Father Maurice
+nodded approvingly again and said: "You were not wrong, Germain; that
+was right."
+
+When Germain had told his story, and had set forth all his reasons, the
+old farmer and his wife heaved deep, simultaneous sighs of resignation,
+and looked at each other. Then the head of the house rose and said:
+"God's will be done. Love can't be made to order."
+
+"Come to supper, Germain," said his mother-in-law. "It is unfortunate
+that this did not come to a better end, but, after all, it seems that
+God did not wish it. We must look elsewhere."
+
+"Yes," added the old man, "as my wife says, we must look elsewhere."
+
+There was no more noise at the house, and on the morrow, when
+Petit-Pierre rose with the larks at dawn, he was no longer excited
+by the extraordinary events of the preceding days. Like other little
+peasants of his age, he became indifferent, forgot everything that had
+been running in his head, and thought only of playing with his brothers,
+and of pretending to drive the horses and oxen like a man. Germain
+plunged into his work, and tried to forget, too; but he became so
+absent-minded and so sad that everybody noticed it. He never spoke to
+little Marie, he never even looked at her, and yet had anybody asked him
+in what meadow she was, or by what road she had passed, there was not a
+moment in the day when he could not have answered if he would. He dared
+not ask his family to take her in at the farm during the winter, and yet
+he knew well how she must suffer from want. But she did not suffer; and
+Mother Guillette could not understand how her little store of wood never
+grew less, and how her shed was full in the morning, although she
+had left it almost empty at night It was the same with the wheat and
+potatoes. Somebody entered by the garret window, and emptied a sack on
+the floor without awaking a soul or leaving a trace of his coming. The
+widow was at once uneasy and delighted. She made her daughter promise to
+tell nobody, and said that were people to know of the miracle performed
+at her house they would take her for a witch. She felt confident that
+the devil had a share in it, but she was in no hurry to pick a quarrel
+with him by calling down the priest's exorcisms on the house. It would
+be time enough, she said, when Satan should come to demand her soul in
+return for his gifts.
+
+Little Marie understood the truth better, but she dared not speak to
+Germain, for fear of seeing him return to his dreams of marriage, and,
+before him, she pretended to perceive nothing.
+
+
+
+
+XV -- Mother Maurice
+
+ONE day, Mother Maurice was alone in the orchard with Germain, and spoke
+to him kindly:
+
+"My poor son, I believe you are not well. You don't eat as well as
+usual; you never laugh; you talk less and less. Perhaps one of us, or
+all of us, have hurt your feelings, without knowing and without wishing
+it."
+
+"No, my mother," answered Germain, "you have always been as kind to
+me as the mother who brought me into the world, and I should be very
+ungrateful if I were to complain of you or your husband, or of anybody
+in the household."
+
+"Then, my child, it is the sorrow for your wife's death which comes back
+to you. Instead of growing lighter with time, your grief becomes worse,
+and as your father has said very wisely, it is absolutely necessary for
+you to marry again."
+
+"Yes, my mother, that is my opinion, but the women whom you advised
+me to ask don't suit me. Whenever I see them, instead of forgetting my
+Catherine, I think of her all the more."
+
+"Apparently that 's because we have n't been able to understand your
+taste. You must help us by telling us the truth. There must be a woman
+somewhere who is made for you, for God does n't make anybody without
+placing his happiness in somebody else. So if you know where to find
+this woman whom you need, take her, and be she pretty or ugly, young or
+old, rich or poor, we have made up our minds, my husband and I, to give
+our consent, for we are tired of seeing you so sad, and we can never be
+happy while you are sorrowful."
+
+"My mother, you are as kind as the kind Lord, and so is my father,"
+answered Germain; "but your compassion brings small help to my troubles,
+for the girl I love does n't care for me."
+
+"She is too young, then? It's foolish for you to love a young girl."
+
+"Yes, mother dear, I have been foolish enough to love a young girl, and
+it 's my fault. I do my best to stop thinking of it, but, working or
+sleeping, at mass or in bed, with my children or with you, I can think
+of nothing else."
+
+"Then it 's like a fate cast over you, Germain. There 's but one remedy,
+and it is that this girl must change her mind and listen to you. It's my
+duty to look into this, and see whether it 's practicable. Tell me where
+she lives, and what 's her name."
+
+"Oh, my dear mother, I dare not," said Germain, "because you will make
+fun of me."
+
+"I shall not make fun of you, Germain, because you are in trouble, and I
+don't wish to make it harder for you. Is it Fanchette?"
+
+"No, mother, of course not."
+
+"Or Rosette?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Tell me, then, for I shall never finish if I must name every girl in
+the country-side."
+
+Germain bowed his head, and could not bring himself to answer.
+
+"Very good," said Mother Maurice, "I shall let you alone for to-day;
+to-morrow, perhaps, you will be more confidential with me, or possibly
+your sister-in-law will question you more cleverly." And she picked up
+her basket to go and spread her linen on the bushes.
+
+Germain acted like children who make up their minds when they see that
+they are no longer attracting attention. He followed his mother, and at
+length, trembling, he named Marie of Guillette.
+
+Great was the surprise of Mother Maurice. Marie was the last person she
+would have dreamed of. But she had the delicacy not to cry out, and made
+her comments to herself. Then seeing that her silence hurt Germain, she
+stretched out her basket toward him and said:
+
+"Is there any reason for not helping me at my work. Carry this load, and
+come and talk with me. Have you reflected well, Germain? Are you fully
+decided?"
+
+"Alas, dear mother, you must n't speak in that way. I should be decided
+if I had a chance of success, but as I could never be heard, I have only
+made up my mind to cure myself, if I can."
+
+"And if you can't."
+
+"There is an end to everything, Mother Maurice: when the horse is laden
+too heavily, he falls, and when the cow has nothing to eat, she dies."
+
+"Do you mean to say that you will die, if you do not succeed. God grant
+not, Germain. I don't like to hear a man like you talk of those things;
+for what he says, he thinks. You are very brave, and weakness
+is dangerous for strong men. Take heart; I can't conceive that a
+poverty-stricken girl, whom you have honored so much as to ask her to
+marry you, will refuse you."
+
+"Yet it 's the truth: she does refuse me."
+
+"And what reasons does she give you?"
+
+"That you have always been kind to her, and that her family owes a great
+deal to yours, and that she does n't wish to displease you by turning me
+away from a rich marriage."
+
+"If she says that, she proves her good sense, and shows what an honest
+girl she is. But, Germain, she does n't cure you; for of course she
+tells you that she loves you and would marry you if we were willing?"
+
+"That's the worst part of all. She says that her heart can never be
+mine."
+
+"If she says what she does n't think in order to keep you at a safer
+distance, the child deserves our love, and we should pass over her youth
+on account of her great good sense."
+
+"Yes," said Germain, struck by a hope he had never held before; "that
+would be very wise and right of her! But if she is so sensible, I am
+sure it is because I displease her."
+
+"Germain," said Mother Maurice, "you must promise me not to worry for a
+whole week. Keep from tormenting yourself, eat, sleep, and be as gay as
+you used to be. For my part, I 'll speak to my husband, and if I gain
+his consent, you shall know the girl's real feelings toward you."
+
+Germain promised, and the week passed without a single word in private
+from Father Maurice, who seemed to suspect nothing. The husbandman did
+his best to look calm, but he grew ever paler and more troubled.
+
+
+
+
+XVI -- Little Marie
+
+AT length, on Sunday morning, when mass was over, his mother-in-law
+asked Germain what encouragement he had had from his sweetheart since
+the conversation in the orchard.
+
+"Why, none at all," answered he; "I have n't spoken to her."
+
+"How can you expect to win her if you don't speak to her?"
+
+"I have spoken to her but once," replied Germain. "That was when we were
+together at Fourche, and since then I have n't said a single word. Her
+refusal gave me so much pain that I had rather not hear her begin again
+to tell me that she does n't love me."
+
+"But, my son, you must speak to her now; your father gives his approval.
+So make up your mind. I tell you to do it, and, if need be, I shall
+order you to do it, for you can't rest in this uncertainty."
+
+Germain obeyed. He reached Mother Guillette's house, hanging his
+head with a hopeless air. Little Marie sat alone before the hearth so
+thoughtful that she did not hear Germain's step. When she saw him before
+her, she started from her chair in surprise and grew very red.
+
+"Little Marie," said he, sitting down near her, "I come to trouble you
+and to give you pain. I know it very well, but the man and his wife at
+home [it was thus after the peasant fashion that he designated the heads
+of the house] wish me to speak to you, and beg you to marry me. You
+don't care for me. I am prepared for it."
+
+"Germain," answered little Marie, "are you sure that you love me?"
+
+"It pains you, I know, but it is n't my fault. If you could change your
+mind, I should be so very happy, and certain it is that I don't deserve
+it. Look at me, Marie; am I very terrible?"
+
+"No, Germain," she answered, with a smile, "you are better looking than
+I."
+
+"Don't make fun of me; look at me charitably; as yet, I have never lost
+a single hair nor a single tooth. My eyes tell you plainly how much I
+love you. Look straight into my eyes. It is written there, and every
+girl knows how to read that writing."
+
+Marie looked into Germain's eyes with playful boldness; then of a sudden
+she turned away her head and trembled.
+
+"Good God," exclaimed Germain, "I make you afraid; you look at me as
+though I were the farmer of Ormeaux. Don't be afraid of me, please
+don't; that hurts me too much. I shall not say any bad words to you, I
+shall not kiss you if you will not have me, and when you wish me to go
+away, you have only to show me the door. Must I go in order to stop your
+trembling?"
+
+Marie held out her hand toward the husbandman, but without turning her
+head, which was bent on the fireplace, and without saying a word.
+
+"I understand," said Germain. "You pity me, for you are kind; you are
+sorry to make me unhappy; but you cant love me."
+
+"Why do you say these things to me, Germain?" answered little Marie,
+after a pause. "Do you wish to make me cry?"
+
+"Poor little girl, you have a kind heart, I know; but you don't love me,
+and you are hiding your face for fear of letting me see your dislike and
+your repugnance. And I? I dare not even clasp your hand! In the forest,
+when my boy was asleep and you were sleeping too, I almost kissed you
+very gently. But I would have died of shame rather than ask it of you,
+and that night I suffered as a man burning over a slow fire. Since
+that time I have dreamed of you every night. Ah! how I have kissed you,
+Marie! Yet during all that time you have slept without a dream. And now,
+do you know what I think? I think that were you to turn and look at me
+with the eyes I have for you, and were you to move your face close to
+mine, I believe I should fall dead for joy. And you, you think that if
+such a thing were to happen, you would die of anger and shame!"
+
+Germain spoke as in a dream, not hearing the words he said. Little Marie
+was trembling all the time, but he was shaking yet more and did not
+notice it. Of a sudden, she turned. Her eyes were filled with tears, and
+she looked at him reproachfully. The poor husbandman thought that this
+was the last blow, and without waiting for his sentence, he rose to go,
+but the girl stopped him, and throwing both her arms about him, she hid
+her face in his breast.
+
+"Oh, Germain," she sobbed, "did n't you feel that I loved you?"
+
+Then Germain had gone mad, if his son, who came galloping into the
+cottage on a stick, with his little sister on the crupper, scourging the
+imaginary steed with a willow branch, had not brought him to his senses.
+He lifted the boy and placed him in the girl's arms.
+
+"See," said he, "by loving me, you have made more than one person
+happy."
+
+
+
+
+
+APPENDIX
+
+I -- A Country Wedding
+
+HERE ends the history of Germain's marriage as he told it to me himself,
+good husbandman that he is. I ask your forgiveness, kind reader, that I
+know not how to translate it better; for it is a real translation that
+is needed by this old-fashioned and artless language of the peasants
+of the country "that I sing," as they used to say. These people speak
+French that is too true for us, and since Rabelais and Montaigne, the
+advance of the language has lost for us many of its old riches. Thus
+it is with every advance, and we must make the best of it. Yet it is
+a pleasure still to hear those picturesque idioms used in the old
+districts in the center of France; all the more because it is the
+genuine expression of the laughing, quiet, and delightfully talkative
+character of the people who make use of it. Touraine has preserved
+a certain precious number of patriarchal phrases. But Touraine was
+civilized greatly during the Renaissance, and since its decline she
+is filled with fine houses and highroads, with foreigners and traffic.
+Berry remained as she was, and I think that after Brittany and a few
+provinces in the far south of France, it is the best preserved district
+to be found at the present day. Some of the costumes are so strange and
+so curious that I hope to amuse you a few minutes more, kind reader,
+if you will allow me to describe to you in detail a country
+wedding--Germain's, for example--at which I had the pleasure of
+assisting several years ago.
+
+For, alas! everything passes. During my life alone, more change has
+taken place in the ideas and in the customs of my village than had
+been seen in the centuries before the Revolution. Already half the
+ceremonies, Celtic, Pagan, or of the Middle Ages, that in my childhood I
+have seen in their full vigor, have disappeared. In a year or two more,
+perhaps, the railroads will lay their level tracks across our deep
+valleys, and will carry away, with the swiftness of lightning, all our
+old traditions and our wonderful legends.
+
+It was in winter about the carnival season, the time of year when, in
+our country, it is fitting and proper to have weddings. In summer the
+time can hardly be spared, and the work of the farm cannot suffer three
+days' delay, not to speak of the additional days impaired to a greater
+or to a less degree by the moral and physical drunkenness which
+follows a gala-day. I was seated beneath the great mantelpiece of the
+old-fashioned kitchen fireplace when shots of pistols, barking of dogs,
+and the piercing notes of the bagpipe told me that the bridal pair were
+approaching. Very soon Father and Mother Maurice, Germain, and little
+Marie, followed by Jacques and his wife, the closer relatives, and the
+godfathers and godmothers of the bride and groom, all made their entry
+into the yard.
+
+Little Marie had not yet received her wedding-gifts,--favors, as they
+call them,--and was dressed in the best of her simple clothes, a dress
+of dark, heavy cloth, a white fichu with great spots of brilliant color,
+an apron of carnation,--an Indian red much in vogue at the time, but
+despised nowadays,--a cap of very white muslin after that pattern,
+happily still preserved, which calls to mind the head-dress of Anne
+Boleyn and of Agnes Sorrel. She was fresh and laughing, but not at
+all vain, though she had good reason to be so. Beside her was Germain,
+serious and tender, like young Jacob greeting Rebecca at the wells of
+Laban. Another girl would have assumed an important air and struck an
+attitude of triumph, for in every rank it is something to be married
+for a fair face alone. Yet the girl's eyes were moist and shone with
+tenderness. It was plain that she was deep in love and had no time to
+think of the opinions of others. Her little air of determination was not
+absent, but everything about her denoted frankness and good-will. There
+was nothing impertinent in her success, nothing selfish in her sense
+of power. Never have I seen so lovely a bride, when she answered with
+frankness her young friends who asked if she were happy:
+
+"Surely I have nothing to complain of the good Lord."
+
+Father Maurice was spokesman. He came forward to pay his compliments,
+and give the customary invitations. First he fastened to the mantelpiece
+a branch of laurel decked out with ribbons; this is known as the
+_writ_--that is to say, the letter of announcement. Next he gave
+to every guest a tiny cross made of a bit of blue ribbon sewn to a
+transverse bit of pink ribbon--pink for the bride, blue for the groom.
+The guests of both sexes were expected to keep this badge to adorn their
+caps or their button-holes on the wedding-day. This is the letter of
+invitation, the admission ticket.
+
+Then Father Maurice paid his congratulations. He invited the head of the
+house and all his _company_,--that is to say, all his children, all his
+friends, and all his servants,--to the benediction, _to the feast, to
+the sports, to the dance, and to everything that follows_. He did not
+fail to say, "I have come _to do you the honor of inviting you_"; a very
+right manner of speech, even though it appears to us to convey the wrong
+meaning, for it expresses the idea of doing honor to those who seem
+worthy of it.
+
+Despite the generosity of the invitation carried from house to house
+throughout the parish, politeness, which is very cautious amongst
+peasants, demands that only two persons from each family take advantage
+of it--one of the heads of the house, and one from the number of their
+children.
+
+After the invitations were made, the betrothed couple and their families
+took dinner together at the farm.
+
+Little Marie kept her three sheep on the common, and Germain tilled the
+soil as though nothing had happened.
+
+About two in the afternoon before the day set for the wedding, the music
+came. The music means the players of the bagpipe and hurdy-gurdy,
+their instruments decorated with long streaming ribbons, playing an
+appropriate march to a measure which would have been rather slow for
+feet foreign to the soil, but admirably adapted to the heavy ground and
+hilly roads of the country.
+
+Pistol-shots, fired by the young people and the children, announced
+the beginning of the wedding ceremonies. Little by little the guests
+assembled, and danced on the grass-plot before the house in order to
+enter into the spirit of the occasion. When evening was come they began
+strange preparations; they divided into two bands, and when night had
+settled down they proceeded to the ceremony of the _favors_.
+
+All this passed at the dwelling of the bride, Mother Guillette's
+cottage. Mother Guillette took with her her daughter, a dozen pretty
+shepherdesses, friends and relatives of her daughter, two or three
+respectable housewives, talkative neighbors, quick of wit and strict
+guardians of ancient customs. Next she chose a dozen stout fellows,
+her relatives and friends; and last of all the parish hemp-dresser, a
+garrulous old man, and as good a talker as ever there was.
+
+The part which, in Brittany, is played by the bazvalon, the village
+tailor, is taken in our part of the country by the hemp-dresser and the
+wool-carder, two professions which are unusually combined in one. He
+is present at all ceremonies, sad or gay, for he is very learned and
+a fluent talker, and on these occasions he must always figure as
+spokesman, in order to fulfil with exactitude certain formalities used
+from time immemorial. Traveling occupations, which bring a man into the
+midst of other families, without allowing him to shut himself up within
+his own, are well fitted to make him talker, wit, storyteller, and
+singer.
+
+The hemp-dresser is peculiarly skeptical. He and another village
+functionary, of whom we have spoken before, the grave-digger, are always
+the daring spirits of the neighborhood. They have talked so much about
+ghosts, and they know so well all the tricks of which these malicious
+spirits are capable, that they fear them scarcely at all. It is
+especially at night that all of them--grave-diggers, hemp-dressers, and
+ghosts--do their work. It is also at night when the hemp-dresser tells
+his melancholy stories. Permit me to make a digression.
+
+When the hemp has reached the right stage, that is to say, when it has
+been steeped sufficiently in running water, and half dried on the bank,
+it is brought into the yard and arranged in little upright sheaves,
+which, with their stalks divided at the base, and their heads bound in
+balls, bear in the dusk some small resemblance to a long procession
+of little white phantoms, standing on their slender legs, and moving
+noiselessly along the wall.
+
+It is at the end of September, when the nights are still warm, that they
+begin to beat it by the pale light of the moon. By day the hemp has been
+heated in the oven; at night they take it out to beat it while it is
+still hot. For this they use a kind of horse surmounted by a wooden
+lever which falls into grooves and breaks the plant without cutting it.
+It is then that you hear in the night that sudden, sharp noise of three
+blows in quick succession. Then there is silence; it is the movement of
+the arm drawing out the handful of hemp to break it in a fresh spot. The
+three blows begin again; the other arm works the lever, and thus it goes
+on until the moon is hidden by the early streaks of dawn. As the work
+continues but a few days in the year, the dogs are not accustomed to it,
+and yelp their plaintive howls toward every point of the horizon.
+
+It is the time of unwonted and mysterious sounds in the country. The
+migrating cranes fly so high that by day they are scarcely visible. By
+night they are only heard, and their hoarse wailing voices, lost in the
+clouds, sound like the parting cry of souls in torment, striving to find
+the road to heaven, yet forced by an unconquerable fate to wander near
+the earth about the haunts of men; for these errant birds have strange
+uncertainties, and many a mysterious anxiety in the course of their airy
+flight. Sometimes they lose the wind when the capricious gusts battle,
+or come and go in the upper regions. When this confusion comes by day,
+you can see the leader of the file fluttering aimlessly in the air, then
+turn about and take his place at the tail of the triangular phalanx,
+while a skilful manoeuver of his companions forms them soon in good
+order behind him. Often, after vain efforts, the exhausted leader
+relinquishes the guidance of the caravan; another comes forward, tries
+in his turn, and yields his place to a third, who finds the breeze, and
+continues the march in triumph. But what cries, what reproaches, what
+protests, what wild curses or anxious questionings are exchanged in an
+unknown tongue amongst these winged pilgrims!
+
+Sometimes, in the resonant night, you can hear these sinister noises
+whirling for a long time above the housetops, and as you can see
+nothing, you feel, despite your efforts, a kind of dread and kindred
+discomfort, until the sobbing multitude is lost in boundless space.
+
+There are other noises too which belong to this time of year, and which
+sound usually in the orchards. Gathering the fruit is not yet over, and
+the thousand unaccustomed cracklings make the tree seem alive. A branch
+groans as it bends beneath a burden which has reached, of a sudden,
+the last stage of growth; or perhaps an apple breaks from the twig, and
+falls on the damp earth at your feet with a dull sound. Then you hear
+rush by, brushing the branches and the grass, a creature you cannot
+see; it is the peasant's dog, that prowling and uneasy rover, at once
+impudent and cowardly, always wandering, never sleeping, ever seeking
+you know not what, spying upon you, hiding in the brush, and taking
+flight at the sound of a falling apple, which he thinks a stone that you
+are throwing at him.
+
+It is during those nights, nights misty and gray, that the hemp-dresser
+tells his weird stories of will-o'-the-wisps and milk-white hares, of
+souls in torment and wizards changed to wolves, of witches' vigils at
+the cross-roads, and screech-owls, prophetesses of the graveyard. I
+remember passing the early hours of such a night while the hemp-dressing
+was going on, and the pitiless strokes, interrupting the dresser's story
+at its most awful place, sent icy shivers through our veins. And often
+too the good man continued his story as he worked, and four or five
+words were lost, terrible words, no doubt, which we dared not make him
+repeat, and whose omission added a mystery yet more fearful to the
+dark mysteries of the story which had gone before. It was in vain the
+servants warned us that it was too late to stay without doors, and that
+bedtime had sounded for us long since; they too were dying to hear more;
+and then with what terror we crossed the hamlet on our way home! How
+deep did the church porch appear to us, and how thick and black the
+shadows of the old trees! The graveyard we dared not see; we shut our
+eyes tight as we passed it.
+
+But no more than the sacristan is the hemp-dresser gifted solely
+with the desire of frightening; he loves to make people laugh; he is
+sarcastic and sentimental at need, when love and marriage are to be
+sung. It is he who collects and keeps stored in his memory the oldest
+songs, and who transmits them to posterity. And so it is he who acts at
+weddings the part we shall see him play at the presentation of little
+Marie's favors.
+
+
+
+
+II -- The Wedding Favors
+
+WHEN all the guests were met together in the house, the doors and
+windows were closed with the utmost care; even the garret window was
+barricaded; boards and benches, logs and tables were placed behind every
+entrance, just as if the inhabitants were making ready to sustain a
+siege; and within these fortifications solemn stillness prevailed until
+at a distance were heard songs and laughter and the sounds of rustic
+music. It was the band of the bridegroom, Germain at the head, followed
+by his most trusty companions and by the grave-digger, relatives,
+friends, and servants, who formed a compact and merry train. Meanwhile,
+as they came nearer the house they slackened their pace, held a council
+of war, and became silent. The girls, shut up in the house, had arranged
+little loop-holes at the windows by which they could see the enemy
+approach and deploy in battle array. A fine, cold rain was falling,
+which added zest to the situation, while a great tire blazed on the
+hearth within. Marie wished to cut short the inevitable slowness of this
+well-ordered siege; she had no desire to see her lover catch cold,
+but not being in authority she had to take an ostensible share in the
+mischievous cruelty of her companions.
+
+When the two armies met, a discharge of firearms on the part of the
+besiegers set all the dogs in the neighborhood to barking. Those within
+the house dashed at the door with loud yelps, thinking that the attack
+was in earnest, and the children, little reassured by the efforts of
+their mothers, began to weep and to tremble. The whole scene was played
+so well that a stranger would have been deceived, and would have made
+his preparations to tight a band of brigands. Then the grave-digger,
+bard and orator of the groom, took his stand before the door, and with
+a rueful voice, exchanged the following dialogue with the hemp-dresser,
+who was stationed above the same door:
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "Ah, my good people, my fellow-townsmen, for the
+love of Heaven, open the door."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "Who are you, and what right have you to call us
+your dear fellow-townsmen? We don't know you."
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "We are worthy folk in great distress. Don't be
+afraid of us, my friends. Extend us your hospitality. Sleet is falling;
+our poor feet are frozen, and our journey home has been so long that our
+sabots are split."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "If your sabots are split, you can look on
+the ground; you will find very soon a sprig of willow to make some
+_arcelets_ [small curved blades of iron which are fastened on split
+sabots to hold them together]."
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "Willow _arcelets_ are scarcely strong enough. You
+are making fun of us, good people, and you would do better to open your
+doors. We can see a splendid fire blazing in your dwelling. The spit
+must be turning, and we can make merry with you, heart and belly. So
+open your doors to poor pilgrims who will die on the threshold if you
+are not merciful."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "Ah ha! so you are pilgrims? You never told us that.
+And what pilgrimage do you come from, may I ask?"
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "We shall tell you that when you open the door, for
+we come from so far that you would never believe it."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "Open the door to you? I rather think not. We can't
+trust you. Tell us, is it from Saint Sylvain of Pouligny that you come?"
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "We have been at Saint Sylvain of Pouligny, but we
+have been farther still."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "Then you have been as far as Saint Solange?"
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "At Saint Solange we have been, sure enough, but we
+have been farther yet."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "You are lying. You have never been as far as Saint
+Solange."
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "We have been farther, for now we are come from
+Saint Jacques of Compostelle."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "What absurdity are you telling us? We don't know
+that parish. We can easily see that you are bad people, brigands,
+nobodies, and liars. Go away with your nonsense. We are on our guard.
+You can't come in."
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "Ah, my poor fellow, take pity on us. We are not
+pilgrims, as you have guessed, but we are unlucky poachers pursued by
+the keepers. Even the police are after us, and if you don't hide us in
+your hay-loft, we shall be taken and led off to prison."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "And who will prove you are what you say you
+are, this time? For you have told us one lie already that you can't
+maintain."
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "If you will let us in, we shall show you a pretty
+piece of game we have killed."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "Show it right away, for we have our suspicions."
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "All right, open the door or a window to let us pass
+the creature in."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "Oh, no, not quite so foolish. I am looking at you
+through a little chink, and I can see neither hunters nor game amongst
+you."
+
+Here an ox-driver, a thick-set fellow of herculean strength, detached
+himself from a group where he had stood unperceived, and raised toward
+the window a plucked goose, spitted on a strong iron bar decorated with
+tufts of straw and ribbons.
+
+"Ho, ho!" cried the hemp-dresser, after cautiously extending an arm to
+feel the roast. "That is n't a quail nor a partridge; it is n't a hare
+nor a rabbit; it 's something like a goose or a turkey. Upon my word,
+you 're clever hunters, and that game did n't make you run very far.
+Move on, you rogues; we know all your lies, and you had best go home and
+cook your supper. You are not going to eat ours."
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "O Heavens, where can we go to cook our game? It is
+very little for so many as we, and, besides, we have neither place nor
+fire. At this time every door is closed, and every soul asleep. You are
+the only people who are celebrating a wedding at home, and you must he
+hardhearted indeed to let us freeze outside. Once again, good people,
+open the door; we shall not cost you anything. You can see that we bring
+our own meat; only a little room at your hearth, a little blaze to cook
+with, and we shall go on our way rejoicing."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "Do you suppose that we have too much room here, and
+that wood is bought tor nothing?"
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "We have here a small bundle of hay to make the
+fire. We shall be satisfied with that; only grant us leave to place the
+spit across your fireplace."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "That will never do. We are disgusted, and don't
+pity you at all. It is my opinion that you are drunk, that you need
+nothing, and that you only wish to come in and steal away our fire and
+our daughters."
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "Since you won't listen to reason, we shall make our
+way in by force."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "Try, if you want; we are shut in well enough to
+have no fear of you, and since you are impudent fellows, we shall not
+answer you again."
+
+Thereupon the hemp-dresser shut the garret window with a bang, and came
+down into the room below by a step-ladder. Then he took the bride by
+the hand, the young people of both sexes followed, and they all began to
+sing and chatter merrily, while the matrons sang in piercing voices, and
+shrieked with laughter in derision and bravado at those without who were
+attempting an attack.
+
+The besiegers, on their side, made a great hubbub. They discharged their
+pistols at the doors, made the dogs growl, whacked the walls, shook
+the blinds, and uttered frightful shrieks. In short, there was such a
+pandemonium that nobody could hear, and such a cloud of dust that nobody
+could see.
+
+And yet this attack was all a sham. The time had not come for breaking
+through the etiquette. If, in prowling about, anybody were to find an
+unguarded aperture, or any opening whatsoever, he might try to slip in
+unobserved, and then, if the carrier of the spit succeeded in placing
+his roast before the fire, and thus prove the capture of the hearth, the
+comedy was over and the bridegroom had conquered.
+
+The entrances of the house, however, were not numerous enough for any to
+be neglected in the customary precautions, and nobody might use violence
+before the moment fixed for the struggle.
+
+When they were weary of dancing and screams, the hemp-dresser began
+to think of capitulation. He went up to his window, opened it with
+precaution, and greeted the baffled assailants with a burst of laughter.
+
+"Well, my boys," said he, "you look very sheep-faced. You thought there
+was nothing easier than to come in, and you see that our defense is
+good. But we are beginning to have pity on you, if you will submit and
+accept our conditions."
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "Speak, good people. Tell us what we must do to
+approach your hearth."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "You must sing, my friends; but sing a song we don't
+know,--one that we can't answer by a better."
+
+"That 's not hard to do," answered the grave-digger, and he thundered in
+a powerful voice: "'Six months ago, 'twas in the spring...'"
+
+"'I wandered through the sprouting grass,'" answered the hemp-dresser
+in a slightly hoarse but terrible voice. "You must be jesting, my poor
+friends, singing us such time-worn songs. You see very well that we can
+stop you at the first word."
+
+     "'She was a prince's daughter...'"
+
+"'Right gladly would she wed,'" answered the hemp-dresser. "Come, move
+on to the next; we know that a little too well."
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "How do you like this one?--
+
+     "'As I was journeying home from Nantes.'"
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_:
+
+     "'Weary, oh, weary, was I, was I.'"
+
+"That dates from my grandmother's time. Let's have another."
+
+ _The Grave-digger_:
+
+     "'One day I went a-walking...'"
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_:
+
+     "'Along a lovely wood!'"
+
+"That one is too stupid! Our little children would n't take the trouble
+to answer you. What! Are these all you know?"
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "Oh, we shall sing you so many that you will never
+be able to hear them all."
+
+In this way a full hour passed. As the two antagonists were champions
+of the country round in the matter of songs, and as their store seemed
+inexhaustible, the contest might last all night with ease, all the
+more because the hemp-dresser, with a touch of malice, allowed several
+ballads of ten, twenty, or thirty couplets to be sung through, feigning
+by his silence to admit his defeat. Then the bridegroom's camp rejoiced
+and sang aloud in chorus, and thought that this time the foe was
+worsted; but at the first line of the last couplet, they heard the
+hoarse croaking of the old hemp-dresser bellow forth the second rhyme.
+Then he cried:
+
+"You need not tire yourselves by singing such a long one, my
+children--we know that one to our finger-tips."
+
+Once or twice, however, the hemp-dresser made a wry face, contracted his
+brow, and turned toward the expectant housewives with a baffled air.
+The grave-digger was singing something so old that his adversary had
+forgotten it, or perhaps had never even heard it; but instantly the good
+gossips chanted the victorious refrain through their noses with voices
+shrill as a sea-mew's, and the grave-digger, forced to surrender, went
+on to fresh attempts.
+
+It would have taken too long to wait for a decision of the victory. The
+bride's party declared itself disposed to be merciful, provided that the
+bride were given a present worthy of her.
+
+Then began the song of the favors to a tune solemn as a church chant.
+
+The men without sang together in bass voices:
+
+     "'Open the door, true love,
+     Open the door; I have presents for you, love,
+     Oh, say not adieu, love.'"
+
+To this the women answered from within in falsetto, with mournful
+voices:
+
+     "'My father is sorry, my mother is sad,
+     And I am a maiden too kind by far
+     At such an hour my gate to unbar.'"
+
+The men took up the first verse as far as the fourth line and modified
+it thus:
+
+     "'And a handkerchief new, love.'"
+
+But, on behalf of the bride, the women answered in the same way as at
+first.
+
+For twenty couplets, at least, the men enumerated all the
+wedding-presents, always mentioning something new in the last line: a
+handsome apron, pretty ribbons, a cloth dress, laces, a golden cross,
+and even a hundred pins to complete the modest list of wedding-presents.
+The refusal of the women could not be shaken, but at length the men
+decided to speak of
+
+     "A good husband, too, love."
+
+And the women answered, turning toward the bride and singing in unison
+with the men:
+
+     "'Open the door, true love,
+     Open the door;
+     Here's a sweetheart for you, love,
+     Pray let us enter, too, love.'"
+
+
+
+
+III -- The Wedding
+
+IMMEDIATELY the hemp-dresser drew back the wooden bolt which barred the
+door within. At this time it was still the only fastening known in most
+of the dwellings of our hamlet. The groom's band burst into the bride's
+house, but not without a struggle; for the young men quartered within,
+and even the old hemp-dresser and the gossips, made it their duty to
+defend the hearth. The spit-bearer, upheld by his supporters, had to
+plant the roast before the fireplace. It was a regular battle, although
+people abstained from striking, and there was no anger shown in this
+struggle. But everybody was pushing and shoving so hard, and there was
+so much playful pride in this display of muscular strength, that the
+results might well have been serious, although they did not appear so
+across the laughs and songs. The poor old hemp-dresser, fighting like a
+lion, was pinned to the wall and squeezed by the crowd until his breath
+almost left him. More than one champion was upset and trodden under foot
+involuntarily; more than one hand, jammed against the spit, was covered
+with blood. These games are dangerous, and latterly the accidents have
+been so severe that our peasants have determined to allow the ceremony
+of the favors to fall into disuse; I believe we saw the last at the
+marriage of Fran�ois Meillant, although there was no real struggle on
+that occasion.
+
+The battle was earnest enough, however, at Germain's wedding. It was
+a point of honor on one side to invade, on the other to defend, Mother
+Guillette's hearth. The great spit was twisted like a screw beneath
+the strong fists which fought for it A pistol-shot set fire to a small
+quantity of hemp arranged in sheaves and laid on a wicker shelf near
+the ceiling. This incident created a diversion, and while some of the
+company crowded about to extinguish the sparks, the grave-digger, who
+had climbed unbeknown into the garret, came down the chimney and seized
+the spit, at the very moment when the ox-driver, who was defending it
+near the hearth, raised it above his head to prevent it from being torn
+away. Some time before the attack, the women had taken the precaution
+to put out the fire lest in the struggle somebody should fall in and get
+burned. The jocular grave-digger, in league with the ox-driver, grasped
+the trophy and tossed it easily across the andirons. It was done! Nobody
+might interfere. The grave-digger sprang to the middle of the room
+and lighted a few wisps of straw, which he placed about the spit under
+pretense of cooking the roast, for the goose was in pieces and the floor
+was strewn with its scattered fragments.
+
+Then there was a great deal of laughter and much boastful dispute.
+Everybody showed the marks of the blows he had received, and as it
+was often a friend's hand that had struck them, there was no word of
+complaint nor of quarreling. The hemp-dresser, half flattened out, kept
+rubbing the small of his back and saying that, although it made small
+difference to him, he protested against the ruse of his friend, the
+grave-digger, and that if he had not been half dead, the hearth had
+never been captured so easily. The women swept the floor and order
+was restored. The table was covered with jugs of new wine. When the
+contestants had drunk together and taken breath, the bridegroom was led
+to the middle of the chamber, and, armed with a wand, he was obliged to
+submit to a fresh trial.
+
+During the struggle, the bride and three of her companions had been
+hidden by her mother, godmother, and aunts, who had made the four girls
+sit down in a remote corner of the room while they covered them with
+a large white cloth. Three friends of Marie's height, with caps of a
+uniform size, were chosen, so that when they were enveloped from head to
+toe by the cloth it was impossible to tell them apart.
+
+The bridegroom might not touch them, except with the tip of his staff,
+and then merely to designate which he thought to be his wife. They
+allowed him time enough to make an examination with no other help than
+his eyes afforded, and the women, placed on either side, kept zealous
+watch lest cheating should occur. Should he guess wrong, he might not
+dance, with his bride, but only with her he had chosen by mistake.
+
+When Germain stood in front of these ghosts wrapped in the same shroud,
+he feared he should make a wrong choice; and, in truth, that had
+happened to many another, so carefully and conscientiously were the
+precautions made. His heart beat loud. Little Marie did her best to
+breathe hard and shake the cloth a little, but her malicious companions
+followed her example, and kept poking the cloth with their fingers, so
+that there were as many mysterious signals as there were girls beneath
+the canopy. The square head-dresses upheld the cloth so evenly that it
+was impossible to discern the contour of a brow outlined by its folds.
+
+After ten minutes' hesitation, Germain shut his eyes, commended his soul
+to God, and stretched out the wand at random. It touched the forehead
+of little Marie, who cast the cloth from her, and shouted with triumph.
+Then it was his right to kiss her, and lifting her in his strong arms,
+he bore her to the middle of the room, where together they opened the
+dance, which lasted until two in the morning. The company separated to
+meet again at eight. As many people had come from the country round, and
+as there were not beds enough for everybody, each of the village
+maidens took to her bed two or three other girls, while the men spread
+themselves pell-mell on the hay in the barn-loft. You can imagine well
+that they had little sleep, for they did nothing but wrestle and joke,
+and tell foolish stories. Properly, there were three sleepless nights at
+weddings, and these we cannot regret.
+
+At the time appointed for departure, when they had partaken of
+milk-soup, seasoned with a strong dose of pepper to stimulate the
+appetite,--for the wedding-feast gave promise of great bounty,--the
+guests assembled in the farm-yard. Since our parish had been abolished,
+we had to go half a league from home to receive the marriage blessing.
+It was cool and pleasant weather, but the roads were in such wretched
+condition that everybody was on horseback, and each man took a companion
+on his crupper, whether she were young or old. Germain started on the
+gray, and the mare, well-groomed, freshly shod, and decked out
+with ribbons, pranced about and snorted fire from her nostrils. The
+husbandman went to the cottage for his bride in company with his
+brother-in-law, Jacques, who rode the old gray, and carried Mother
+Guillette on the crupper, while Germain returned to the farm-yard in
+triumph, holding his dear little wife before him.
+
+Then the merry cavalcade set out, escorted by the children, who ran
+ahead and fired off their pistols to make the horses jump. Mother
+Maurice was seated in a small cart, with Germain's three children and
+the fiddlers. They led the march to the sound of their instruments.
+Petit-Pierre was so handsome that his old grandmother was pride itself.
+But the eager child did not stay long at her side. During a moment's
+halt made on the journey, before passing through a difficult piece of
+road, he slipped away and ran to beg his father to carry him in front on
+the gray.
+
+"No, no," replied Germain, "that will call forth some disagreeable joke;
+we must n't do it."
+
+"It's little that I care what the people of Saint Chartier say," said
+little Marie. "Take him up, Germain, please do; I shall be prouder of
+him than I am of my wedding-gown."
+
+Germain yielded, and the pretty trio darted into the crowd borne by the
+triumphant gallop of the gray.
+
+And so it was; the people of Saint Chartier, although they were very
+sarcastic, and somewhat disdainful of the neighboring parishes which had
+been annexed to theirs, never thought of laughing when they saw such
+a handsome husband, such a lovely wife, and a child that a king's wife
+might court. Petit-Pierre was all dressed in light blue cloth, with a
+smart red waistcoat so short that it descended scarcely below his chin.
+The village tailor had fitted his armholes so tight that he could not
+bring his two little hands together. But, oh, how proud he was! He wore
+a round hat, with a black-and-gold cord, and a peacock's plume which
+stuck out proudly from a tuft of guinea feathers. A bunch of flowers,
+bigger than his head, covered his shoulder, and ribbons fluttered to his
+feet The hemp-dresser, who was also the barber and hair-dresser of the
+district, had cut his hair evenly, by covering his head with a bowl, and
+clipping off the protruding locks, an infallible method for guiding the
+shears. Thus arrayed, the poor child was less poetic, certainly, than
+with his curls streaming in the wind, and his Saint John Baptist's
+sheepskin about him; but he knew nothing of this, and everybody admired
+him and said that he had quite the air of a little man. His beauty
+triumphed over everything, for what is there over which the exceeding
+beauty of childhood could not triumph?
+
+His little sister, Solange, had, for the first time in her life, a
+peasant's cap in place of the calico hood which little girls wear until
+they are two or three years old. And what a cap it was! Longer and
+larger than the poor little thing's whole body. How beautiful she
+thought it! She dared not even turn her head; so she kept quite still
+and thought the people would take her for the bride.
+
+As for little Sylvain, he was still in long clothes, and, fast asleep on
+his grandmother's knees, he did not even know what a wedding was.
+
+Germain looked at his children tenderly, and when they reached the town
+hall, he said to his bride:
+
+"Marie, I have come here with a happier heart than I had the day when I
+brought you home from the forest of Chanteloube, thinking that you could
+never love me. I took you in my arms to put you on the ground as I do
+here; but I thought that never again should we be mounted on the good
+gray with the child on our knees. I love you so dearly, I love these
+little creatures so dearly, I am so happy that you love me and that you
+love them, and that my family love you, and I love your mother so well
+and all my friends so well, and everybody else so well today, that I
+wish I had three or four hearts to fill all of them; for surely one is
+too small to hold so much love and so much happiness. It almost makes my
+stomach ache."
+
+There was a crowd at the door of the town hall and another at the church
+to see the pretty bride. Why should we not tell about her dress? it
+became her so well. Her muslin cap, without spot and covered with
+embroidery, had lappets trimmed with lace. At that time peasant women
+never allowed a single lock to be seen, and, although they conceal
+beneath their caps splendid coils of hair tied up with tape to hold the
+coif in place, even to-day it would be thought a scandal and a shame for
+them to show themselves bareheaded to men. Nowadays, however, they allow
+a slender braid to appear over their foreheads, and this improves their
+appearance very much. Yet I regret the classic head-dress of my time;
+its spotless laces next the bare skin gave an effect of pristine purity
+which seemed to me very solemn; and when a face looked beautiful thus it
+was with a beauty of which nothing can express the charm and unaffected
+majesty.
+
+Little Marie wore her cap thus, and her forehead was so white and so
+pure that it defied the whiteness of linen to cast it in the shade.
+Although she had not closed an eye the night before, the morning air
+and, yet more, the joy within of a soul pure as the heaven, and, more
+than all, a small secret flame guarded with the modesty of girlhood,
+caused a bloom to mount to her cheeks delicate as the peach-blossom in
+the first beams of an April sun.
+
+Her white scarf, modestly crossed over her breast, left visible only the
+soft curves of a neck rounded like a turtle-dove's; her home-made cloth
+gown of myrtle-green outlined her pretty figure, which looked already
+perfect, yet which must still grow and develop, for she was but
+seventeen. She wore an apron of violet silk with the bib our peasant
+women were so foolish as to suppress, which added so much elegance and
+decency to the breast. Nowadays they display their scarfs more proudly,
+but there is no longer in their dress that delicate flower of the purity
+of long ago, which made them look like Holbein's virgins. They are more
+forward and more profuse in their courtesies. The good old custom used
+to be a kind of staid reserve which made their rare smile deeper and
+more ideal.
+
+During the offertory, after the fashion of the day, Germain placed the
+"thirteen"--that is to say, thirteen pieces of silver--in his bride's
+hand. He slipped over her finger a silver ring of a form unchanged
+for centuries, but which is replaced for henceforth by the golden
+wedding-ring. As they walked out of church, Marie said in a low voice:
+
+"Is this really the ring I wanted? Is it the one I asked you for,
+Germain?"
+
+"Yes," answered he, "my Catherine wore it on her finger when she died.
+There is but one ring for both my weddings."
+
+"Thank you, Germain," said the young woman, in a serious and impressive
+tone. "I shall die with it on, and if I go before you, you must keep it
+for the marriage of your little Solange."
+
+
+
+
+IV -- The Cabbage
+
+THEY mounted and returned very quickly to Belair. The feast was
+bountiful, and, mingled with songs and dances, it lasted until
+midnight. For fourteen hours the old people did not leave the table. The
+grave-digger did the cooking, and did it very well. He was celebrated
+for this, and he would leave his fire to come in and dance and sing
+before and after every course. And yet this poor Father Bontemps was
+epileptic. Who would have thought it? He was fresh and strong, and merry
+as a young man. One day we found him in a ditch, struck down by his
+malady at nightfall. We carried him home with us, in a wheelbarrow, and
+we spent all night in caring for him. Three days afterward, he was at a
+wedding, singing like a thrush, jumping like a kid, and bustling about
+after his old fashion. When he left a marriage, he would go to dig a
+grave, and nail up a coffin. Then he would become very grave, and
+though nothing of this appeared in his gay humor, it left a melancholy
+impression which hastened the return of his attacks. His wife was
+paralyzed, and had not stirred from her chair for twenty years. His
+mother is living yet, at a hundred and forty, but he, poor man, so happy
+and good and amusing, was killed last year by falling from his loft
+to the sidewalk. Doubtless he died a victim to a fatal attack of his
+disease, and, as was his habit, had hidden in the hay, so as not to
+frighten and distress his family. In this tragic manner he ended a life
+strange as his disposition--a medley of things sad and mad, awful and
+gay; and, in the midst of all, his heart was ever good and his nature
+kind.
+
+Now we come to the third day of the wedding, the most curious of all,
+which is kept to-day in all its vigor. We shall not speak of the roast
+which they carry to the bridal bed; it is a very silly custom, and hurts
+the self-respect of the bride, while it tends to ruin the modesty of
+the attendant girls. Besides, I believe that it is practised in all the
+provinces, and does not belong peculiarly to our own.
+
+Just as the ceremony of the wedding favors is a symbol that the heart
+and home of the bride are won, that of the cabbage is a symbol of the
+fruit-fulness of marriage. When breakfast is over on the day after the
+wedding, this fantastic representation begins. Originally of Gallic
+derivation, it has passed through primitive Christianity, and little by
+little it has become a kind of mystery, or droll morality-play of the
+Middle Ages.
+
+Two boys, the merriest and most intelligent of the company, disappear
+from breakfast, and after costuming themselves, return escorted by dogs,
+children, and pistol-shots. They represent a pair of beggars--husband
+and wife--dressed in rags. The husband is the filthier of the two; it is
+vice which has brought him so low; the wife is unhappy and degraded only
+through the misdeeds of her husband.
+
+They are called the gardener and the gardener's wife, and they pretend
+it is their duty to guard and care for the sacred cabbage. The husband
+has several names, each with a meaning. Sometimes they call him the
+"scarecrow," because his head is covered with straw or hemp, and because
+his legs and a portion of his body are surrounded with straw to hide
+his nakedness, ill concealed by his rags. He has also a great belly,
+or hump, constructed of straw or hay underneath his blouse. Then he is
+known as the "ragamuffin," on account of his covering of rags. Lastly he
+is termed the "infidel," and this is most significant of all, because by
+his cynicism and his debauchery he is supposed to typify the opposite of
+every Christian virtue.
+
+He comes with his face all smeared with soot and the lees of wine, and
+sometimes made yet more hideous by a grotesque mask. An earthenware cup,
+notched and broken, or an old sabot attached to his girdle by a cord,
+shows that he has come to beg for alms of wine. Nobody refuses him, and
+he pretends to drink; then he pours the wine on the ground by way of
+libation. At every step he falls, rolls in the mud, and feigns to be
+a prey to the most shameful drunkenness. His poor wife runs after him,
+picks him up, calls for help, arranges his hempen locks, which straggle
+forth in unkempt wisps from beneath his filthy hat, sheds tears over her
+husband's degradation, and pours forth pathetic reproaches.
+
+"Wretched man," she cries, "see the misery to which your wickedness
+has brought us. I have to spend all my time sewing and working for you,
+mending your clothes. You tear and bedraggle yourself incessantly. You
+have eaten up all my little property; our six children lie on straw, and
+we are living in a stable with the beasts. Here we are forced to beg for
+alms, and, besides, you are so ugly and vile and despicable that very
+soon they will be tossing us bread as if we were dogs. Ah, my poor
+people, take pity on us! Take pity on me! I have n't deserved my lot,
+and never had woman a more dirty and detestable husband. Help me to
+pick him up, else the wagons will run over him as they run over broken
+bottles, and I shall be a widow, and that will end by killing me with
+grief, though all the world says it would be an excellent riddance
+for me." Such is the part of the gardener's wife, and her continued
+lamentations last during the entire play. For it is a genuine
+spontaneous comedy acted on the spur of the moment in the open air,
+along the roads and across the fields, aided by every chance occurrence
+that presents itself. Everybody shares in the acting, people within the
+wedding-party and people without, wayfarers and dwellers in houses, for
+three or four hours of the day, as we shall see. The theme is always the
+same, but the variations are infinite; and it is here that we can see
+the instinct of mimicry, the abundance of droll ideas, the fluency, the
+wit at repartee, and even the natural eloquence of our peasants.
+
+The r�le of gardener's wife is intrusted commonly to a slender man,
+beardless and fresh of face, who can give a great appearance of truth to
+his personification and plays the burlesque despair naturally enough to
+make people sad and glad at once, as they are in real life. These thin,
+beardless men are not rare among us, and, strangely enough, they are
+sometimes most remarkable for their muscular strength.
+
+When the wife's misfortunes have been explained, the young men of the
+company try to persuade her to leave her drunken husband and to amuse
+herself with them. They offer her their arms and drag her away. Little
+by little she gives way; her spirits rise, and she begins to run about,
+first with one and then with another, and grows more scandalous in her
+behavior: a fresh "morality"; the ill-conduct of the husband excites and
+aggravates the evil in the wife.
+
+Then the "infidel" wakes from his drunkenness. He looks about for his
+companion, arms himself with a rope and a stick and rushes after her.
+They make him run, they hide, they pass the wife from one to another,
+they try to divert her attention and to deceive her jealous spouse. His
+friends try to get him drunk. At length he catches his unfaithful wife,
+and wishes to beat her. What is truest and most carefully portrayed in
+this play is that the jealous husband never attacks the men who carry
+off his wife. He is very polite and prudent with them, and wishes only
+to take vengeance on the sinning woman, because she is supposed to be
+too feeble to offer resistance.
+
+At the moment, however, when he raises his stick and prepares his cord
+to strike the delinquent, all the men in the party interpose and throw
+themselves between husband and wife.
+
+"Don't strike her! Never strike your wife," is the formula repeated to
+satiety during these scenes. They disarm the husband, and force him to
+pardon and to kiss his wife, and soon he pretends to love her better
+than ever. He walks along, his arm linked in hers, singing and dancing
+until, in a new access of drunkenness, he rolls upon the ground,
+and then begin all over again the lamentations of the wife, her
+discouragements, her pretended unfaithfulness, her husband's jealousy,
+the interference of the neighbors, and the reconciliation. In all
+this there is a simple and even coarse lesson, which, though it savors
+strongly of its Middle-Age origin, does not fail to fix its impression
+if not on the married folk, who are too loving or too sensible to
+have need of it, at least upon the children and the young people. The
+"infidel," racing after young girls and pretending to wish to kiss them,
+frightens and disgusts them to such a degree that they fly in unaffected
+terror. His dirty face and his great stick, harmless as it is, make
+the children shriek aloud. It is the comedy of customs in their most
+elementary but their most striking state.
+
+When this farce is well under way, people make ready to hunt for the
+cabbage. They bring a stretcher and place upon it the "infidel," armed
+with a spade, a cord, and a large basket. Four powerful men raise him
+on their shoulders. His wife follows on foot, and after her come
+the "elders" in a body with serious and thoughtful looks; then the
+wedding-march begins by couples to a step tuned to music. Pistol-shots
+begin anew, and dogs bark louder than ever at the sight of the filthy
+"infidel" borne aloft in triumph. The children swing incense in derision
+with sabots fastened at the end of a cord.
+
+But why this ovation to an object so repulsive? They are marching to the
+capture of the sacred cabbage, emblem of the fruitfulness of marriage,
+and it is this drunkard alone who can bear the symbolic plant in his
+hand. Doubtless, there is in it a pre-Christian mystery which recalls
+the Saturnalian feasts or some rout of the Bacchanals. Perhaps this
+"infidel," who is, at the same time, preeminently a gardener, is
+none other than Priapus himself, god of gardens and of drunkenness, a
+divinity who must have been pure and serious in his origin as is the
+mystery of birth, but who has been degraded bit by bit through license
+of manners and distraction of thought.
+
+However this may be, the triumphal procession arrives at the bride's
+house, and enters the garden. Then they select the choicest cabbage, and
+this is not done very quickly, for the old people keep consulting and
+disputing interminably, each one pleading for the cabbage he thinks most
+suitable. They put it to vote, and when the choice is made the gardener
+fastens his cord to the stalk, and moves away as far as the size of the
+garden permits. The gardener's wife takes care that the sacred
+vegetable shall not be hurt in its fall. The wits of the wedding, the
+hemp-dresser, the grave-digger, the carpenter, and the sabot-maker, form
+a ring about the cabbage, for men who do not till the soil, but pass
+their lives in other people's houses, are thought to be, and are really,
+wittier and more talkative than simple farmhands. One digs, with a
+spade, a ditch deep enough to uproot an oak. Another places on his
+nose a pair of wooden or cardboard spectacles. He fulfils the duties of
+"engineer," walks up and down, constructs a plan, stares at the workmen
+through his glasses, plays the pedant, cries out that everything will be
+spoiled, has the work stopped and begun afresh as his fancy directs, and
+makes the whole performance as long and ridiculous as he can. This is
+an addition to the formula of an ancient ceremony held in mockery of
+theorists in general, for peasants despise them royally, or from hatred
+of the surveyors who decide boundaries and regulate taxes, or of the
+workmen employed on bridges and causeways, who transform commons into
+highways, and suppress old abuses which the peasants love. Be this as it
+may, this character in the comedy is called the "geometrician," and
+does his best to make himself unbearable to those who are toiling with
+pickaxe and shovel.
+
+After a quarter of an hour spent in mummery, and difficulties raised in
+order to avoid cutting the roots, and to transplant the cabbage without
+injury, while shovelfuls of dirt are tossed into the faces of the
+onlookers,--so much the worse for him who does not retreat in time,
+for were he bishop or prince he must receive the baptism of earth,--the
+"infidel" pulls the rope, the "infidel's wife" holds her apron, and the
+cabbage falls majestically amidst the applause of the spectators. Then a
+basket is brought, and the "infidel" pair plant the cabbage therein
+with every care and precaution. They surround it with fresh earth, and
+support it with sticks and strings, such as city florists use for their
+splendid potted camellias; they fix red apples to the points of the
+sticks, and twist sprigs of thyme, sage, and laurel all about them; they
+bedeck the whole with ribbons and streamers; they place the trophy
+upon the stretcher with the "infidel," whose duty it is to maintain its
+equilibrium and preserve it from harm; and, at length, they move away
+from the garden in good order and in marching step.
+
+But when they are about to pass the gate, and again when they enter the
+yard of the bridegroom's house, an imaginary obstacle blocks the way.
+The bearers of the burden stagger, utter loud cries, retreat, advance
+once more, and, as though crushed by a resistless force, they pretend
+to sink beneath its weight. While this is going on, the bystanders shout
+loudly, exciting and steadying this human team.
+
+"Slowly, slowly, my child. There, there, courage! Look out! Be patient!
+Lower your head; the door is too low! Close up; it's too narrow! A little
+more to the left; now to the right; on with you; don't be afraid; you
+'re almost there."
+
+Thus it is that in years of plentiful harvest, the ox-cart, loaded to
+overflowing with hay or corn, is too broad or too high to enter the
+barn door. Thus it is that the driver shouts at the strong beasts, to
+restrain them or to urge them on; thus it is that with skill and mighty
+efforts they force this mountain of riches beneath the rustic arch of
+triumph. It is, above all, the last load, called "the cart of sheaves,"
+which requires these precautions, for this is a rural festival, and
+the last sheaf lifted from the last furrow is placed on the top of the
+cart-load ornamented with ribbons and flowers, while the foreheads of
+the oxen and the whip of the driver are decorated also. The triumphant
+and toilsome entry of the cabbage into the house is a symbol of the
+prosperity and fruitfulness it represents.
+
+Safe within the bridegroom's yard, the cabbage is taken from its
+stretcher and borne to the topmost peak of the house or barn. Whether it
+be a chimney, a gable, or a dove-cote that crowns the roof, the burden
+must, at any risk, be carried to the very highest point of the building.
+The "infidel" accompanies it as far as this, sets it down securely, and
+waters it with a great pitcher of wine, while a salvo of pistol-shots
+and demonstrations of joy from the "infidel's wife" proclaim its
+inauguration.
+
+Without delay, the same ceremony is repeated all over again. Another
+cabbage is dug from the garden of the husband and is carried with the
+same formalities and laid upon the roof which his wife has deserted to
+follow him. These trophies remain in their places until the wind and the
+rain destroy the baskets and carry away the cabbage. Yet their lives are
+long enough to give some chance of fulfilment to the prophecies which
+the old men and women make with bows and courtesies.
+
+"Beautiful cabbage," they say, "live and flourish that our young bride
+may have a fine baby before a year is over; for if you die too quickly
+it is a sign of barrenness, and you will stick up there like an ill
+omen."
+
+The day is already far gone when all these things are accomplished. All
+that remains undone is to take home the godfathers and godmothers of the
+newly married couple. When the so-called parents dwell at a distance,
+they are accompanied by the music and the whole wedding procession as
+far as the limits of the parish; there they dance anew on the highroad,
+and everybody kisses them good-by. The "infidel" and his wife are then
+washed and dressed decently, if the fatigue of their parts has not
+already driven them away to take a nap.
+
+Everybody was still dancing and singing and eating in the Town Hall of
+Belair at midnight on this third day of the wedding when Germain was
+married. The old men at table could not stir, and for good reason. They
+recovered neither their legs nor their wits until dawn on the morrow.
+While they were regaining their dwellings, silently and with uncertain
+steps, Germain, proud and active, went out to hitch his oxen, leaving
+his young wife to slumber until daylight. The lark, caroling as it
+mounted to the skies, seemed to him the voice of his heart returning
+thanks to Providence. The hoar-frost, sparkling on the leafless bushes,
+seemed to him the whiteness of April flowers that comes before the
+budding leaves. Everything in nature was laughing and happy for him.
+Little Pierre had laughed and jumped so much the evening before that he
+did not come to help lead his oxen; but Germain was glad to be alone.
+He fell on his knees in the furrow he was about to plow afresh, and said
+his morning prayer with such a burst of feeling that two tears rolled
+down his cheeks, still moist with sweat.
+
+Afar off he heard the songs of the boys from neighboring villages, who
+were starting on their return home, singing again in their hoarse voices
+the happy tunes of the night before.
+
+THE END.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Devil's Pool, by George Sand
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diff --git a/old/21993-8.zip b/old/21993-8.zip
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+<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
+
+<!DOCTYPE html
+   PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
+   "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" >
+
+<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en">
+  <head>
+    <title>
+      The Devil's Pool, by George Sand
+    </title>
+    <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve">
+
+    body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify}
+    P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; }
+    H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; }
+    hr  { width: 50%; text-align: center;}
+    .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; }
+    blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;}
+    .mynote    {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;}
+    .toc       { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;}
+    .toc2      { margin-left: 20%;}
+    div.fig    { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; }
+    div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; }
+    .figleft   {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;}
+    .figright  {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;}
+    .pagenum   {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal;
+               margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%;
+               text-align: right;}
+    pre        { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;}
+
+</style>
+  </head>
+  <body>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Devil's Pool, by George Sand
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Devil's Pool
+
+Author: George Sand
+
+Illustrator: E. Abot
+
+Translator: Jane Minot Sedgwick And Ellery Sedgwick
+
+Release Date: July 4, 2007 [EBook #21993]
+Last Updated: March 16, 2018
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEVIL'S POOL ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <h1>
+      THE DEVIL'S POOL
+    </h1>
+    <h2>
+      By George Sand
+    </h2>
+    <h3>
+      Translated From The French By Jane Minot Sedgwick And Ellery Sedgwick
+      <br /> <br /> With An Etching By E. Abot <br /> <br /> <br /> 1901
+    </h3>
+    <p>
+      <br />
+    </p>
+    <div class="fig" style="width:80%">
+      <img alt="frontispiece (66K)" src="images/frontispiece.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <div class="fig" style="width:80%">
+      <img alt="titlepage (27K)" src="images/titlepage.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <blockquote>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        <br />
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0001"> <b>THE DEVIL'S POOL</b> </a>
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        <br />
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0002"> I &mdash; The Tillage of the Soil </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0003"> II &mdash; Father Maurice </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0004"> III &mdash; Germain, the Skilled
+        Husbandman </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0005"> IV &mdash; Mother Guillette </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0006"> V &mdash; Petit-Pierre </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0007"> VI &mdash; On the Heath </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0008"> VII &mdash; Underneath the Big Oaks </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0009"> VIII &mdash; The Evening Prayer </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0010"> IX &mdash; Despite the Cold </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0011"> X &mdash; Beneath the Stars </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0012"> XI &mdash; The Belle of the Village </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0013"> XII &mdash; The Master </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0014"> XIII &mdash; The Old Woman </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0015"> XIV &mdash; The Return to the Farm </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0016"> XV &mdash; Mother Maurice </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0017"> XVI &mdash; Little Marie </a>
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        <br />
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_APPE"> <b>APPENDIX</b> </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0019"> II &mdash; The Wedding Favors </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0020"> III &mdash; The Wedding </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0021"> IV &mdash; The Cabbage </a>
+      </p>
+    </blockquote>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0001" id="linklink2H_4_0001">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h1>
+      THE DEVIL'S POOL
+    </h1>
+    <p>
+      <br />
+    </p>
+    <div class="fig" style="width:80%">
+      <img alt="page7 (97K)" src="images/page7.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <br /> THE AUTHOR TO THE READER
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     <i>A la sueur de ton visaige,
+        Tu gagnerais ta pauvre vie.
+     Après long travail et usaige,
+        Voicy la mort qui te convie.</i> *
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      THIS quaint old French verse, written under one of Holbein's pictures, is
+      profoundly melancholy. The engraving represents a laborer driving his plow
+      through the middle of a field. Beyond him stretches a vast horizon, dotted
+      with wretched huts; the sun is sinking behind the hill. It is the end of a
+      hard day's work. The peasant is old, bent, and clothed in rags. He is
+      urging onward a team of four thin and exhausted horses; the plowshare
+      sinks into a stony and ungrateful soil. One being only is active and alert
+      in this scene of toil and sorrow. It is a fantastic creature. A skeleton
+      armed with a whip, who acts as plowboy to the old laborer, and running
+      along through the furrow beside the terrified horses, goads them on. This
+      is the specter Death, whom Holbein has introduced allegorically into that
+      series of religious and philosophic subjects, at once melancholy and
+      grotesque, entitled &ldquo;The Dance of Death.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+   * In toil and sorrow thou shalt eat
+     The bitter bread of poverty.
+     After the burden and the heat,
+     Lo! it is Death who calls for thee.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      In this collection, or rather this mighty composition, where Death, who
+      plays his part on every page, is the connecting link and predominating
+      thought, Holbein has called up kings, popes, lovers, gamesters, drunkards,
+      nuns, courtesans, thieves, warriors, monks, Jews, and travelers,&mdash;all
+      the people of his time and our own; and everywhere the specter Death is
+      among them, taunting, threatening, and triumphing. He is absent from one
+      picture only, where Lazarus, lying on a dunghill at the rich man's door,
+      declares that the specter has no terrors for him; probably because he has
+      nothing to lose, and his existence is already a life in death.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Is there comfort in this stoical thought of the half-pagan Christianity of
+      the Renaissance, and does it satisfy religious souls? The upstart, the
+      rogue, the tyrant, the rake, and all those haughty sinners who make an ill
+      use of life, and whose steps are dogged by Death, will be surely punished;
+      but can the reflection that death is no evil make amends for the long
+      hardships of the blind man, the beggar, the madman, and the poor peasant?
+      No! An inexorable sadness, an appalling fatality brood over the artist's
+      work. It is like a bitter curse, hurled against the fate of humanity.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Holbein's faithful delineation of the society in which he lived is,
+      indeed, painful satire. His attention was engrossed by crime and calamity;
+      but what shall we, who are artists of a later date, portray? Shall we look
+      to find the reward of the human beings of to-day in the contemplation of
+      death, and shall we invoke it as the penalty of unrighteousness and the
+      compensation of suffering?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      No, henceforth, our business is not with death, but with life. We believe
+      no longer in the nothingness of the grave, nor in safety bought with the
+      price of a forced renunciation; life must be enjoyed in order to be
+      fruitful. Lazarus must leave his dunghill, so that the poor need no longer
+      exult in the death of the rich. All must be made happy, that the good
+      fortune of a few may not be a crime and a curse. As the laborer sows his
+      wheat, he must know that he is helping forward the work of life, instead
+      of rejoicing that Death walks at his side. We may no longer consider death
+      as the chastisement of prosperity or the consolation of distress, for God
+      has decreed it neither as the punishment nor the compensation of life.
+      Life has been blessed by Him, and it is no longer permissible for us to
+      leave the grave as the only refuge for those whom we are unwilling to make
+      happy.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There are some artists of our own day, who, after a serious survey of
+      their surroundings, take pleasure in painting misery, the sordidness of
+      poverty, and the dunghill of Lazarus. This may belong to the domain of art
+      and philosophy; but by depicting poverty as so hideous, so degraded, and
+      sometimes so vicious and criminal, do they gain their end, and is that end
+      as salutary as they would wish? We dare not pronounce judgment. They may
+      answer that they terrify the unjust rich man by pointing out to him the
+      yawning pit that lies beneath the frail covering of wealth; just as in the
+      time of the Dance of Death, they showed him his gaping grave, and Death
+      standing ready to fold him in an impure embrace. Now, they show him the
+      thief breaking open his doors, and the murderer stealthily watching his
+      sleep. We confess we cannot understand how we can reconcile him to the
+      human nature he despises, or make him sensible of the sufferings of the
+      poor wretch whom he dreads, by showing him this wretch in the guise of the
+      escaped convict or the nocturnal burglar. The hideous phantom Death, under
+      the repulsive aspect in which he has been represented by Holbein and his
+      predecessors, gnashing his teeth and playing the fiddle, has been
+      powerless to convert the wicked and console their victims. And does not
+      our literature employ the same means as the artists of the Middle Ages and
+      the Renaissance?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The revelers of Holbein fill their glasses in a frenzy to dispel the idea
+      of Death, who is their cup-bearer, though they do not see him. The unjust
+      rich of our own day demand cannon and barricades to drive out the idea of
+      an insurrection of the people which Art shows them as slowly working in
+      the dark, getting ready to burst upon the State. The Church of the Middle
+      Ages met the terrors of the great of the earth with the sale of
+      indulgences. The government of to-day soothes the uneasiness of the rich
+      by exacting from them large sums for the support of policemen, jailors,
+      bayonets, and prisons.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Albert Durer, Michael Angelo, Holbein, Callot, and Goya have made powerful
+      satires on the evils of their times and countries, and their immortal
+      works are historical documents of unquestionable value. We shall not
+      refuse to artists the right to probe the wounds of society and lay them
+      bare to our eyes; but is the only function of art still to threaten and
+      appall? In the literature of the mysteries of iniquity, which talent and
+      imagination have brought into fashion, we prefer the sweet and gentle
+      characters, which can attempt and effect conversions, to the melodramatic
+      villains, who inspire terror; for terror never cures selfishness, but
+      increases it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      We believe that the mission of art is a mission of sentiment and love,
+      that the novel of to-day should take the place of the parable and the
+      fable of early times, and that the artist has a larger and more poetic
+      task than that of suggesting certain prudential and conciliatory measures
+      for the purpose of diminishing the fright caused by his pictures. His aim
+      should be to render attractive the objects he has at heart, and, if
+      necessary, I have no objection to his embellishing them a little. Art is
+      not the study of positive reality, but the search for ideal truth, and the
+      &ldquo;Vicar of Wakefield&rdquo; was a more useful and healthy book than the &ldquo;Paysan
+      Perverti,&rdquo; or the &ldquo;Liaisons Dangereuses.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Forgive these reflections of mine, kind reader, and let them stand as a
+      preface, for there will be no other to the little story I am going to
+      relate to you. My tale is to be so short and so simple, that I felt
+      obliged to make you my apologies for it beforehand, by telling you what I
+      think of the literature of terror.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I have allowed myself to be drawn into this digression for the sake of a
+      laborer; and it is the story of a laborer which I have been meaning to
+      tell you, and which I shall now tell you at once.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0002" id="linklink2H_4_0002">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <br />
+    </p>
+    <div class="fig" style="width:80%">
+      <img alt="page15 (110K)" src="images/page15.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <br />
+    </p>
+    <h2>
+      I &mdash; The Tillage of the Soil
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      I HAD just been looking long and sadly at Holbein's plowman, and was
+      walking through the fields, musing on rustic life and the destiny of the
+      husbandman. It is certainly tragic for him to spend his days and his
+      strength delving in the jealous earth, that so reluctantly yields up her
+      rich treasures when a morsel of coarse black bread, at the end of the
+      day's work, is the sole reward and profit to be reaped from such arduous
+      toil. The wealth of the soil, the harvests, the fruits, the splendid
+      cattle that grow sleek and fat in the luxuriant grass, are the property of
+      the few, and but instruments of the drudgery and slavery of the many. The
+      man of leisure seldom loves, for their own sake, the fields and meadows,
+      the landscape, or the noble animals which are to be converted into gold
+      for his use. He comes to the country for his health or for change of air,
+      but goes back to town to spend the fruit of his vassal's labor.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On the other hand, the peasant is too abject, too wretched, and too
+      fearful of the future to enjoy the beauty of the country and the charms of
+      pastoral life. To him, also, the yellow harvest-fields, the rich meadows,
+      the fine cattle represent bags of gold; but he knows that only an
+      infinitesimal part of their contents, insufficient for his daily needs,
+      will ever fall to his share. Yet year by year he must fill those accursed
+      bags, to please his master and buy the right of living on his land in
+      sordid wretchedness. Yet nature is eternally young, beautiful, and
+      generous. She pours forth poetry and beauty on all creatures and all
+      plants that are allowed free development.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She owns the secret of happiness, of which no one has ever robbed her. The
+      happiest of men would be he who, knowing the full meaning of his labor,
+      should, while working with his hands, find his happiness and his freedom
+      in the exercise of his intelligence, and, having his heart in unison with
+      his brain, should at once understand his own work and love that of God,
+      The artist has such delights as these in contemplating and reproducing the
+      beauties of nature; but if his heart be true and tender, his pleasure is
+      disturbed when he sees the miseries of the men who people this paradise of
+      earth. True happiness will be theirs when mind, heart, and hand shall work
+      in concert in the sight of Heaven, and there shall be a sacred harmony
+      between God's goodness and the joys of his creatures. Then, instead of the
+      pitiable and frightful figure of Death stalking, whip in hand, across the
+      fields, the painter of allegories may place beside the peasant a radiant
+      angel, sowing the blessed grain broadcast in the smoking furrow. The dream
+      of a serene, free, poetic, laborious, and simple life for the tiller of
+      the soil is not so impossible that we should banish it as a chimera. The
+      sweet, sad words of Virgil: &ldquo;Oh, happy the peasants of the field, if they
+      knew their own blessings!&rdquo; is a regret, but, like all regrets, it is also
+      a prophecy. The day will come when the laborer too may be an artist, and
+      may at least feel what is beautiful, if he cannot express it,&mdash;a
+      matter of far less importance. Do not we know that this mysterious poetic
+      intuition is already his, in the form of instinct and vague reverie? Among
+      those peasants who possess some of the comforts of life, and whose moral
+      and intellectual development is not entirely stifled by extreme
+      wretchedness, pure happiness that can be felt and appreciated exists in
+      the elementary stage; and, moreover, since poets have already raised their
+      voices out of the lap of pain and of weariness, why should we say that the
+      labor of the hands excludes the working of the soul? Without doubt this
+      exclusion is the common result of excessive toil and of deep misery; but
+      let it not be said that when men shall work moderately and usefully there
+      will be nothing but bad workers and bad poets. The man who draws in noble
+      joy from the poetic feeling is a true poet, though he has never written a
+      verse all his life.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      My thoughts had flown in this direction, without my perceiving that my
+      confidence in the capacity of man for education was strengthened by
+      external influences. I was walking along the edge of a field, which some
+      peasants were preparing to sow. The space was vast as that in Holbein's
+      picture; the landscape, too, was vast and framed in a great sweep of
+      green, slightly reddened by the approach of autumn. Here and there in the
+      great russet field, slender rivulets of water left in the furrows by the
+      late rains sparkled in the sunlight like silver threads. The day was clear
+      and mild, and the soil, freshly cleft by the plowshare, sent up a light
+      steam. At the other extremity of the field, an old man, whose broad
+      shoulders and stern face recalled Holbein's plowman, but whose clothes
+      carried no suggestion of poverty, was gravely driving his plow of antique
+      shape, drawn by two placid oxen, true patriarchs of the meadow, tall and
+      rather thin, with pale yellow coats and long, drooping horns. They were
+      those old workers who, through long habit, have grown to be <i>brothers</i>,
+      as they are called in our country, and who, when one loses the other,
+      refuse to work with a new comrade, and pine away with grief. People who
+      are unfamiliar with the country call the love of the ox for his
+      yoke-fellow a fable. Let them come and see in the corner of the stable one
+      of these poor beasts, thin and wasted, restlessly lashing his lean flanks
+      with his tail, violently breathing with mingled terror and disdain on the
+      food offered him, his eyes always turned toward the door, scratching with
+      his hoof the empty place at his side, sniffing the yokes and chains which
+      his fellow used to wear, and incessantly calling him with melancholy
+      lowings. The ox-herd will say: &ldquo;There is a pair of oxen gone;' this one
+      will work no more, for his brother is dead. We ought to fatten him for the
+      market, but he will not eat, and will soon starve himself to death.&rdquo; The
+      old laborer worked slowly, silently, and without waste of effort His
+      docile team were in no greater haste than he; but, thanks to the
+      undistracted steadiness of his toil and the judicious expenditure of his
+      strength, his furrow was as soon plowed as that of his son, who was
+      driving, at some distance from him, four less vigorous oxen through a more
+      stubborn and stony piece of ground.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      My attention was next caught by a fine spectacle, a truly noble subject
+      for a painter. At the other end of the field a fine-looking youth was
+      driving a magnificent team of four pairs of young oxen, through whose
+      somber coats glanced a ruddy, glow-like name. They had the short, curry
+      heads that belong to the wild bull, the same large, fierce eyes and jerky
+      movements; they worked in an abrupt, nervous way that showed how they
+      still rebelled against the yoke and goad, and trembled with anger as they
+      obeyed the authority so recently imposed. They were what is called &ldquo;newly
+      yoked&rdquo; oxen. The man who drove them had to clear a corner of the field
+      that had formerly been given up to pasture, and was filled with old
+      tree-stumps; and his youth and energy, and his eight half-broken animals,
+      hardly sufficed for the Herculean task.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A child of six or seven years old, lovely as an angel, wearing round his
+      shoulders, over his blouse, a sheepskin that made him look like a little
+      Saint John the Baptist out of a Renaissance picture, was running along in
+      the furrow beside the plow, pricking the flanks of the oxen with a long,
+      light goad but slightly sharpened. The spirited animals quivered under the
+      child's light touch, making their yokes and head-bands creak, and shaking
+      the pole violently. Whenever a root stopped the advance of the plowshare,
+      the laborer would call every animal by name in his powerful voice, trying
+      to calm rather than to excite them; for the oxen, irritated by the sudden
+      resistance, bounded, pawed the ground with their great cloven hoofs, and
+      would have jumped aside and dragged the plow across the fields, if the
+      young man had not kept the first four in order with his voice and goad,
+      while the child controlled the four others. The little fellow shouted too,
+      but the voice which he tried to make of terrible effect, was as sweet as
+      his angelic face. The whole scene was beautiful in its grace and strength;
+      the landscape, the man, the child, the oxen under the yoke; and in spite
+      of the mighty struggle by which the earth was subdued, a deep feeling of
+      peace and sweetness reigned over all. Each time that an obstacle was
+      surmounted and the plow resumed its even, solemn progress, the laborer,
+      whose pretended violence was but a trial of his strength, and an outlet
+      for his energy, instantly regained that serenity which is the right of
+      simple souls, and looked with fatherly pleasure toward his child, who
+      turned to smile back at him. Then the young father would raise his manly
+      voice in the solemn and melancholy chant that ancient tradition transmits,
+      not indeed to all plowmen indiscriminately, but to those who are most
+      perfect in the art of exciting and sustaining the spirit of cattle while
+      at work. This song, which was probably sacred in its origin, and to which
+      mysterious influences must once have been attributed, is still thought to
+      possess the virtue of putting animals on their mettle, allaying their
+      irritation, and of beguiling the weariness of their long, hard toil. It is
+      not enough to guide them skilfully, to trace a perfectly straight furrow,
+      and to lighten their labor by raising the plowshare or driving it into the
+      earth; no man can be a consummate husbandman who does not know how to sing
+      to his oxen, and that is an art that requires taste and especial gifts. To
+      tell the truth, this chant is only a recitative, broken off and taken up
+      at pleasure. Its irregular form and its intonations that violate all the
+      rules of musical art make it impossible to describe.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But it is none the less a noble song, and so appropriate is it to the
+      nature of the work it accompanies, to the gait of the oxen, to the peace
+      of the fields, and to the simplicity of the men who sing it, that no
+      genius unfamiliar with the tillage of the earth, and no man except an
+      accomplished laborer of our part of the country, could repeat it. At the
+      season of the year when there is no work or stir afoot except that of the
+      plowman, this strong, sweet refrain rises like the voice of the breeze, to
+      which the key it is sung in gives it some resemblance. Each phrase ends
+      with a long trill, the final note of which is held with incredible
+      strength of breath, and rises a quarter of a tone, sharping
+      systematically. It is barbaric, but possesses an unspeakable charm, and
+      anybody, once accustomed to hear it, cannot conceive of another song
+      taking its place at the same hour and in the same place, without striking
+      a discord.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      So it was that I had before my eyes a picture the reverse of that of
+      Holbein, although the scene was similar. Instead of a wretched old man, a
+      young and active one; instead of a team of weary and emaciated horses,
+      four yoke of robust and fiery oxen; instead of death, a beautiful child;
+      instead of despair and destruction, energy and the possibility of
+      happiness.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then the old French verse, &ldquo;À la sueur de ton vis-aige,&rdquo; etc., and
+      Virgil's &ldquo;O fortunatos... agricolas,&rdquo; returned to my mind, and seeing this
+      lovely child and his father, under such poetic conditions, and with so
+      much grace and strength, accomplish a task full of such grand and solemn
+      suggestions, I was conscious of deep pity and involuntary respect. Happy
+      the peasant of the fields! Yes, and so too should I be in his place, if my
+      arm and voice could be endowed with sudden strength, and I could help to
+      make Nature fruitful, and sing of her gifts, without ceasing to see with
+      my eyes or understand with my brain harmonious colors and sounds, delicate
+      shades and graceful outlines; in short, the mysterious beauty of all
+      things. And above all, if my heart continued to beat in concert with the
+      divine sentiment that presided over the immortal sublimity of creation.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But, alas! this man has never understood the mystery of beauty; this child
+      will never understand it. God forbid that I should not think them superior
+      to the animals which are subject to them, or that they have not moments of
+      rapturous insight that soothe their toil and lull their cares to sleep. I
+      see the seal of the Lord upon their noble brows, for they were born to
+      inherit the earth far more truly than those who have bought and paid for
+      it. The proof that they feel this is that they cannot be exiled with
+      impunity, that they love the soil they have watered with their tears, and
+      that the true peasant dies of homesickness under the arms of a soldier far
+      from his native field. But he lacks some of my enjoyments, those pure
+      delights which should be his by right, as a workman in that immense temple
+      which the sky only is vast enough to embrace. He lacks the consciousness
+      of his sentiment. Those who condemned him to slavery from his mother's
+      womb, being unable to rob him of his vague dreams, took away from him the
+      power of reflection.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Yet, imperfect being that he is, sentenced to eternal childhood, he is
+      nobler than the man in whom knowledge has stifled feeling. Do not set
+      yourselves above him, you who believe yourselves invested with a lawful
+      and inalienable right to rule over him, for your terrible mistake shows
+      that your brain has destroyed your heart, and that you are the blindest
+      and most incomplete of men! I love the simplicity of his soul more than
+      the false lights of yours; and if I had to narrate the story of his life,
+      the pleasure I should take in bringing out the tender and touching side of
+      it would be greater than your merit in painting the degradation and
+      contempt into which he is cast by your social code.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I knew the young man and the beautiful child; I knew their history, for
+      they had a history. Everybody has his own, and could make the romance of
+      his life interesting, if he could but understand it. Although but a
+      peasant and a laborer, Germain had always been aware of his duties and
+      affections. He had related them to me clearly and ingenuously, and I had
+      listened with interest. After some time spent in watching him plow, it
+      occurred to me that I might write his story, though that story were as
+      simple, as straightforward, and unadorned as the furrow he was tracing.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Next year that furrow will be filled and covered by a fresh one. Thus
+      disappear most of the footprints made by man in the field of human life. A
+      little earth obliterates them, and the furrows we have dug succeed one
+      another like graves in a cemetery. Is not the furrow of the laborer of as
+      much value as that of the idler, even if that idler, by some absurd
+      chance, have made a little noise in the world, and left behind him an
+      abiding name?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I mean, if possible, to save from oblivion the furrow of Germain, the
+      skilled husbandman. He will never know nor care, but I shall take pleasure
+      in my talk.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0003" id="linklink2H_4_0003">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      II &mdash; Father Maurice
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;GERMAIN,&rdquo; said his father-in-law one day, &ldquo;you must decide about marrying
+      again. It is almost two years now since you lost my daughter, and your
+      eldest boy is seven years old! You are almost thirty, my boy, and you know
+      that in our country a man is considered too old to go to housekeeping
+      again after that age; you have three nice children, and thus far they have
+      not proved a burden to us at all. My wife and my daughter-in-law have
+      looked after them as well as they could, and loved them as they ought.
+      Here is Petit-Pierre almost grown up. He goads the oxen very well; he
+      knows how to look after the cattle; and he is strong enough to drive the
+      horses to the trough. So it is not he that worries us. But the other two,
+      love them though we do, God knows the poor little innocents give us
+      trouble enough this year; my daughter-in-law is about to lie in, and she
+      has yet another baby to attend to. When the child we are expecting comes,
+      she will not be able to look after your little Solange, and above all your
+      Sylvain, who is not four years old, and who is never quiet day or night.
+      He has a restless disposition like yours; that will make a good workman of
+      him, but it makes a dreadful child, and my old wife cannot run fast enough
+      to save him when he almost tumbles into the ditch, or when he throws
+      himself in front of the tramping cattle. And then with this other that my
+      daughter-in-law is going to bring into the world, for a month at least her
+      next older child will fall on my wife's hands. Besides, your children
+      worry us, and give us too much to do; we hate to see children badly looked
+      after, and when we think of the accidents that may befall them, for want
+      of care, we cannot rest. So you need another wife, and I another
+      daughter-in-law. Think this over, my son. I have called it to your mind
+      before. Time flies, and the years will not wait a moment for you. It is
+      your duty to your children and to the rest of us, who wish all well at
+      home, to marry as soon as you can.&rdquo; &ldquo;Very well, father,&rdquo; answered the
+      son-in-law, &ldquo;if you really wish it, I must do as you say. But I do not
+      wish to hide it from you that it will make me very sad, and that I hardly
+      wish tor anything but to drown myself. We know who it is we lose, we never
+      know whom we find. I had a good wife, a pretty wife, sweet, brave, good to
+      her father and mother, good to her husband, good to her children, good to
+      toil in the fields and in the house, well fitted to work,&mdash;in short,
+      good for everything; and when you had given her to me, and I took her, we
+      did not place it among our promises that I should go and forget about her
+      if I had the misfortune to lose her.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What you say shows your good heart, Germain,&rdquo; answered Father Maurice. &ldquo;I
+      know that you loved my daughter and that you made her happy, and that had
+      you been able to satisfy Death by going in her place, Catherine would be
+      alive today, and you would be in the graveyard. She deserved all your
+      love, and if you are not consoled, neither are we. But I do not speak to
+      you of forgetting her: God wished her to leave us, and we do not let a day
+      go by without telling him in our prayers and thoughts, and words and
+      actions, that we keep her memory and still sorrow for her loss. But if she
+      could speak to you from the other world, and let you know what she wishes,
+      she would tell you to find a mother for her little orphans. So the
+      question is to find a woman who will be worthy to take her place. It will
+      not be easy, but it is not impossible. And when we shall find her for you,
+      you will love her as you used to love my daughter, because you are a good
+      man, and because you will be thankful to her for helping us and for loving
+      your children.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Very well, Father Maurice, I shall do as you wish, as I have always
+      done.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is only justice, my son, to say that you have always listened to the
+      friendly advice and good judgment of the head of the house. So let us
+      consult about your choice of a new wife. First, I don't advise you to take
+      a young girl. That is not what you need. Youth is careless, and, as it is
+      hard work to bring up three children, especially when they are of another
+      bed, you must have a good soul, wise and gentle, and well used to work. If
+      your wife is not about the same age as you, she will have no reason to
+      accept such a duty. She will find you too old and your children too young.
+      She will be complaining, and your children will suffer.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;This is just what makes me uneasy. Suppose the poor little things should
+      be badly treated, hated, beaten?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;God grant not,&rdquo; answered the old man. &ldquo;But bad women are more rare with
+      us than good, and we shall be stupid if we cannot pick out somebody who
+      will suit us.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That is true, father. There are good girls in our village. There is
+      Louise, Sylvaine, Claudie, Marguerite&mdash;yes, anybody you want.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Gently, gently, my boy. All these girls are too young, or too poof, or
+      too pretty; for surely we must think of that top, my son. A pretty woman
+      is not always as well behaved as another!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then you wish me to take an ugly wife?&rdquo; said Germain, a little uneasy.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, not ugly at all, for this woman will bear you other children, and
+      there is nothing more miserable than to have children who are ugly and
+      weak and sickly. But a woman still fresh and in good health, who is
+      neither pretty nor ugly, would suit you exactly.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am quite sure,&rdquo; said Germain, smiling rather sadly, &ldquo;that to get such a
+      woman as you wish, you must have her made to order. All the more because
+      you don't wish her to be poor, and the rich are not easy to get,
+      particularly for a widower.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And suppose she were a widow herself, Germain? A widow without children
+      and with a good portion?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;For the moment, I cannot think of anybody like this in our parish.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Nor I either. But there are others elsewhere.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You have somebody in mind, father. Then tell me, at once, who it is.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0004" id="linklink2H_4_0004">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      III &mdash; Germain, the Skilled Husbandman
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;YES, I have somebody in mind,&rdquo; replied Father Maurice. &ldquo;It is a Leonard,
+      the widow of a Guérin. She lives at Fourche.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I know neither the woman nor the place,&rdquo; answered Germain, resigned, but
+      growing more and more melancholy.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Her name is Catherine, like your dead wife's.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Catherine? Yes, I shall be glad to have to pronounce that name,
+      Catherine; and yet if I cannot love one as much as the other, it will pain
+      me all the more. It will bring her to my mind more often.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I tell you, you will love her. She is a good soul, a woman with a warm
+      heart. I have not seen her for a long time. She was not an ugly girl then.
+      But she is no longer young. She is thirty-two. She comes of a good family,
+      honest people all of them, and for property she has eight or ten thousand
+      francs in land which she would sell gladly in order to invest in the place
+      where she settles. For she, too, is thinking of marrying again, and I know
+      that if your character pleases her, she will not be dissatisfied with your
+      situation.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;So you have made all the arrangements?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, except that I have not had an opinion from either of you, and that
+      is what you must ask each other when you meet. The woman's father is a
+      distant connection of mine, and he has been a good friend to me. You know
+      Father Leonard well?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, I have seen you two talking at the market, and at the last you
+      lunched together. Then it was about her that he spoke to you so long?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Certainly. He watched you selling your cattle and saw that you drove a
+      shrewd bargain, and that you were a good-looking fellow and appeared
+      active and intelligent; and when I told him what a good fellow you were
+      and how well you have behaved toward us, without one word of vexation or
+      anger during the eight years we have been living and working together, he
+      took it into his head to marry you to his daughter. This suits me, too, I
+      admit, when I think of her good reputation and the honesty of her family
+      and the prosperous condition I know her affairs are in.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I see, Father Maurice, that you have an eye to money.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Of course I do; you have, too, have you not?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I do look toward it, if you wish, for your sake; but you know that, for
+      my own part, I don't worry whether I gain or not in what we make. I don't
+      understand about profit-sharing; I have no head for that sort of thing. I
+      understand the ground; I understand cattle, horses, carts, sowing,
+      threshing, and provender. As for sheep, and vineyards, and vegetables,
+      petty profits, and fine gardening, you know that is your son's business. I
+      don't have much to do with it. As to money, my memory is short, and I
+      should rather give up everything than fight about what is yours and what
+      is mine. I should be afraid of making some mistake and claiming what does
+      not belong to me, and if business were not so clear and simple I should
+      never find my way in it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;So much the worse, my son; and this is the reason I wish you to have a
+      wife with a clear head to fill my place when I am gone. You never wished
+      to understand our accounts, and this might lead you into a quarrel with my
+      son, when you don't have me any longer to keep you in harmony and decide
+      what is each one's share.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;May you live long, Father Maurice. But do not worry about what will
+      happen when you die. I shall never quarrel with your son. I trust Jacques
+      as I do you; and as I have no property of my own, and all that might
+      accrue to me comes from your daughter and belongs to our children, I can
+      rest easy, and you, too. Jacques would never rob his sister's children for
+      the sake of his own, for he loves them all equally.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are right, Germain. Jacques is a good son, a good brother, and a man
+      who loves the truth. But Jacques may die before you, before your children
+      grow up; and in a family we must always remember never to leave children
+      without a head to look after them and govern their disagreements;
+      otherwise, the lawyer-people mix themselves up in it, stir them up to
+      fight, and make them eat up everything in law-suits. So we ought not to
+      think of bringing home another person, man or woman, without remembering
+      that some day or other that person may have to control the behavior and
+      business of twenty or thirty children and grandchildren, sons-in-law and
+      daughters-in-law. We never know how big a family can grow, and when a hive
+      is so full that the bees must form new swarms, each one wishes to carry
+      off her share of the honey. When I took you for my son, although my
+      daughter was rich and you were poor, I never reproached her for choosing
+      you. I saw that you were a hard worker, and I knew very well that the best
+      fortune for people in such a country as ours is a pair of arms and a heart
+      like yours. When a man brings these into a family, he brings enough. But
+      with a woman it is different. Her work indoors saves, but it does not
+      gain. Besides, now that you are a father, looking for a second wife, you
+      must remember that your new children will have no claim on the property of
+      your children by another wife; and if you should happen to die they might
+      suffer very much&mdash;at least, if your wife had no money in her own
+      right. And then the children which you will add to our colony will cost
+      something to bring up. If that fell on us alone, we should surely take
+      care of them without a word of complaint; but the comfort of everybody
+      would suffer, and your eldest children would bear their share of hardship.
+      When families grow too large, if money does not keep pace, misery comes,
+      no matter how bravely you bear up. This is what I wished to say, Germain;
+      think it over, and try to make the widow Guérin like you; for her
+      discretion and her dollars will help us now and make us feel easy about
+      the future.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That is true, Father. I shall try to please her and to like her.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;To do that you must go to find her, and see her.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;At her own place? At Fourche? That is a great way from here, is it not?
+      And we scarcely have time to run off at this season of the year.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;When it is a question of a love-match you must make up your mind to lose
+      time, but when it is a sensible marriage of two people, who take no sudden
+      fancies and know what they want, it is very soon decided. To-morrow is
+      Saturday; you will make your day's work a little shorter than usual. You
+      must start after dinner about two o'clock. You will be at Fourche by
+      nightfall. The moon rises early. The roads are good, and it is not more
+      than three leagues distant. It is near Magnier. Besides, you will take the
+      mare.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I had just as lief go afoot in this cool weather.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, but the mare is pretty, and a suitor looks better when he comes well
+      mounted. You must put on your new clothes and carry a nice present of game
+      to Father Leonard. You will come from me and talk with him, pass all of
+      Sunday with his daughter, and come back Monday morning with a yes or no.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; answered Germain calmly, and yet he did not feel very calm.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain had always lived soberly, as industrious peasants do. Married at
+      twenty, he had loved but one woman in his life, and after her death,
+      impulsive and gay as his nature was, he had never played nor trifled with
+      another. He had borne a real sorrow faithfully in his heart, and it was
+      not without misgiving nor without sadness that he yielded to his
+      father-in-law; but that father had always governed the family wisely, and
+      Germain, entirely devoted as he was to the common welfare and so, by
+      consequence, to the head of the house, who represented it, could not
+      understand that he might have wronged his own good sense and hurt the
+      interests of all. Nevertheless, he was sad. Few days went by when he did
+      not cry in secret, for his wife, and although loneliness began to weigh on
+      him, he was more afraid of entering into a new marriage than desirous of
+      finding a support in his sorrow. He had a vague idea that love might have
+      consoled him by coming to him of a sudden, for this is the only way love
+      can console. We never find it when we seek it; it comes over us unawares.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This cold-blooded scheme of marriage that Father Maurice had opened to
+      him, this unknown woman he was to take for his bride, perhaps even all
+      that had been said to him of her virtue and good sense, made him pause to
+      think. And he went away musing as men do whose thoughts are too few to
+      divide into hostile factions, not scraping up fine arguments for rebellion
+      and selfishness but suffering from a dull grief, submissive to ills from
+      which there is no escape.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Meanwhile, Father Maurice had returned to the farm, while Germain, between
+      sunset and dark, spent the closing hour of the day in repairing gaps the
+      sheep had made in the hedge of a yard near the farm-buildings. He lifted
+      up the branches of the thorn-bushes and held them in place with clods of
+      earth, whilst the thrushes chattered in the neighboring thicket and seemed
+      to call to him to hurry, for they were eager to come and see his work as
+      soon as he had gone.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0005" id="linklink2H_4_0005">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      IV &mdash; Mother Guillette
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      FATHER MAURICE found at his house an old neighbor who had come to talk
+      with his wife, seeking at the same time to secure a few embers to light
+      her fire. Mother Guillette lived in a wretched hut two gunshots away from
+      the farm. Still she was a willing and an orderly woman. Her poor dwelling
+      was clean and neat, and the care with which her clothes were mended showed
+      that she respected herself in the midst of her penury.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You have come to fetch your evening fire, Mother Guillette,&rdquo; said the old
+      man to her. &ldquo;Is there anything else you want?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, Father Maurice,&rdquo; answered she; &ldquo;nothing for the present. I am no
+      beggar, as you know, and I take care not to abuse the kindness of my
+      friends.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That is very true. Besides, your friends are always ready to do you a
+      service.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I was just talking to your wife, and I was asking her if Germain had
+      finally decided to marry again.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are no gossip,&rdquo; replied Father Maurice; &ldquo;we can talk in your presence
+      without having any foolish tale-bearing to fear. So I will tell my wife
+      and you that Germain has made up his mind absolutely. To-morrow morning he
+      starts for the farm at Fourche.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Good enough!&rdquo; cried Mother Maurice; &ldquo;poor child! God grant he may find a
+      woman as good and true as he.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;So he is going to Fourche?&rdquo; remarked Mother Guillette; &ldquo;how lucky that
+      is! It is exactly what I want. And since you were just asking me if there
+      were anything I wished for, I am going to tell you, Father Maurice, how
+      you can do me a service.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Tell me what it is; we like to help you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I wish Germain would be so kind as to take my daughter along with him.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Where? To Fourche?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, not to Fourche, but to Ormeaux. She is to stay there the rest of the
+      year.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; exclaimed Mother Maurice, &ldquo;are you going to separate from your
+      daughter?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;She must go out to work and earn her living. I am sorry enough, and she
+      is too, poor soul. We could not make up our minds to part Saint John's
+      Day, but now that Saint Martin's is upon us, she finds a good place as
+      shepherdess at the farms at Ormeaux. On his way home from the fair the
+      other day, the farmer passed by here. He caught sight of my little Marie
+      tending her three sheep on the common.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;'You have hardly enough to do, my little girl,' said he; 'three sheep are
+      not enough for a shepherdess: would you like to take care of a hundred? I
+      will take you along. Our shepherdess has fallen sick. She is going back to
+      her family, and if you will be at our farm before a week is over, you
+      shall have fifty francs for the rest of the year up to Saint John's Day.'
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;The child refused, but she could not help thinking it over and telling me
+      about it, when she came home in the evening, and found me downhearted and
+      worried about the winter, which was sure to be hard and long; for this
+      year the cranes and wild ducks were seen crossing the sky a whole month
+      before they generally do. We both of us cried, but after a time we took
+      heart. We knew that we could not stay together, since it is hard enough
+      for one person to get a living from our little patch of ground. Then since
+      Marie is old enough,&mdash;for she is going on to sixteen,&mdash;she must
+      do like the rest, earn her own living and help her poor mother.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Mother Guillette,&rdquo; said the old laborer, &ldquo;if it were only fifty francs
+      you needed to help you out of your trouble, and save you from sending away
+      your daughter, I should certainly find them for you, although fifty francs
+      is no trifle for people like us. But in everything we must consult common
+      sense as well as friendship. To be saved from want this year will not keep
+      you from want in the future, and the longer your daughter takes to make up
+      her mind, the harder you both will find it to part. Little Marie is
+      growing tall and strong. She has not enough at home to keep her busy. She
+      might get into lazy habits...&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, I am not afraid of that!&rdquo; exclaimed Mother Guillette. &ldquo;Marie is as
+      active as a rich girl at the head of a large family can be. She never sits
+      still with her arms folded for an instant, and when we have no work to do,
+      she keeps dusting and polishing our old furniture until it shines like a
+      mirror. The child is worth her weight in gold, and I should much rather
+      have her enter your service as a shepherdess than go so far away to people
+      I don't know. You would have taken her at Saint John's Day; but now you
+      have hired all your hands, and we cannot think of that till Saint John's
+      Day next year.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, I consent with all my heart, Guillette. I shall be very glad to take
+      her. But in the mean time she will do well to learn her work, and accustom
+      herself to obey others.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, that is true, no doubt. The die is cast. The farmer at Ormeaux sent
+      to ask about her this morning; we consented, and she must go. But the poor
+      child does not know the way, and I should not like to send her so far
+      alone. Since your son-in-law goes to Fourche to-morrow, perhaps he can
+      take her. It seems that Fourche is close to her journey's end. At least,
+      so they tell me, for I have never made the trip myself.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is very near indeed, and my son will show her the way. Naturally, he
+      might even take her up behind him on the mare. That will save her shoes.
+      Here he comes for supper. Tell me, Germain, Mother Guillette's little
+      Marie is going to become a shepherdess at Ormeaux. Will you take her there
+      on your horse?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Certainly,&rdquo; answered Germain, who, troubled as he was, never felt
+      indisposed to do a kindness to his neighbor.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In our community a mother would not think of such a thing as to trust a
+      girl of sixteen to a man of twenty-eight. For Germain was really but
+      twenty-eight, and although according to the notions of the country people
+      he was considered rather old to marry, he was still the best-looking man
+      in the neighborhood. Toil had not wrinkled and worn him as it does most
+      peasants who have passed ten years in till-ing the soil. He was strong
+      enough to labor for ten more years without showing signs of age, and the
+      prejudices of her time must have weighed heavily on the mind of a young
+      girl to prevent her from seeing that Germain had a fresh complexion, eyes
+      sparkling and blue as skies in May, ruddy lips, fine teeth, and a body
+      well shaped and lithe as a young horse that has never yet left his
+      pasture.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But purity of manners is a sacred custom in some districts far distant
+      from the corrupted life of great cities, and amongst all the households of
+      Belair, the family of Maurice was known to be honest and truth-loving.
+      Germain was on his way to find a wife. Marie was a child, too young and
+      too poor to be thought of in this light, and unless he were a heartless
+      and a bad man he could not entertain one evil thought concerning her.
+      Father Maurice felt no uneasiness at seeing him take the pretty girl on
+      the crupper. Mother Guillette would have thought herself doing him a wrong
+      had she asked him to respect her daughter as his sister. Marie embraced
+      her mother and her young friends twenty times, and then mounted the mare
+      in tears. Germain, sad on his own account, felt all the more sympathy for
+      her sorrow, and rode away with a melancholy air, while all the people of
+      the neighborhood waved good-by to Marie without a thought of harm.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0006" id="linklink2H_4_0006">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      V &mdash; Petit-Pierre
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      THE gray was young, good-looking, and strong. She carried her double
+      burden with ease, laying back her ears and champing her bit like the
+      high-spirited mare she was. Passing in front of the pasture, she caught
+      sight of her mother, whose name was the Old Gray as hers was the Young
+      Gray, and she whinnied in token of good-by. The Old Gray came nearer the
+      hedge, and striking her shoes together she tried to gallop along the edge
+      of the field in order to follow her daughter; then seeing her fall into a
+      sharp trot, the mare whinnied in her turn and stood in an uneasy attitude,
+      her nose in the air and her mouth filled with grass that she had no
+      thought of eating.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That poor beast always knows her offspring,&rdquo; said Germain, trying to keep
+      Marie's thoughts from her troubles. &ldquo;That reminds me, I never kissed
+      Petit-Pierre before I started. The naughty boy was not there. Last night
+      he wished to make me promise to take him along, and he wept for an hour in
+      bed. This morning again, he tried everything to persuade me. Oh, how sly
+      and coaxing he is! But when he saw that he could not gain his point, the
+      young gentleman got into a temper. He went off to the fields, and I have
+      not seen him all day.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I have seen him,&rdquo; said little Marie, striving to keep back her tears; &ldquo;he
+      was running toward the clearing with Soulas' children, and I felt sure
+      that he had been away from home a long time, for he was hungry and was
+      eating wild plums and blackberries. I gave him the bread I had for lunch,
+      and he said, 'Thank you, dear Marie; when you come to our house, I will
+      give you some cake.' He is a dear little child, Germain.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, he is,&rdquo; answered the laborer; &ldquo;and there is nothing I would not do
+      for him. If his grandmother had not more sense than I, I could not have
+      helped taking him with me, when I saw him crying as though his poor little
+      heart would burst.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then why did you not take him, Germain? He, would have been very little
+      trouble. He is so good when you please him.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He would probably have been in the way in the place where I am going. At
+      least Father Maurice thought so. On the other hand, I should have thought
+      it well to see how they received him. For no one could help being kind to
+      such a nice child. But at home they said that I must not begin by showing
+      off all the cares of the household. I don't know why I speak of this to
+      you, little Marie; you can't understand.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, yes, I do; I know that you are going away to marry; my mother spoke
+      to me about it, and told me not to mention it to a soul, either at home or
+      at my destination, and you need not be afraid; I shall not breathe a word
+      about it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are very right. For the deed is n't done yet. Perhaps I shall not
+      suit this woman.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I hope you will, Germain; why should you not suit her?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Who knows? I have three children, and that is a heavy burden for a woman
+      who is not their mother.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Very true. But are not your children like other children?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Do you think so?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;They are lovely as little angels, and so well brought up that you can't
+      find better children.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;There 's Sylvain. He is none too obedient.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He is so very little. He can't help being naughty. But he is very
+      bright.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He is bright it is true, and very brave. He is not afraid of cows nor
+      bulls, and if he were given his own way, he would be climbing on horseback
+      already with his elder brother.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Had I been in your place, I would have taken the eldest boy along. Surely
+      people would have liked you at once for having such a pretty child.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, if a woman is fond of children. But if she is not.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Are there women who don't love children?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not many, I think, but still there are some, and that is what troubles
+      me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You don't know this woman at all, then?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No more than you, and I fear that I shall not know her better after I
+      have seen her. I am not suspicious. When people say nice things to me, I
+      believe them, but more than once I have had good reason to repent, for
+      words are not deeds.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;They say that she is a very good woman.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Who says so? Father Maurice?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, your father-in-law.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That is all very well. But he knows her no more than I.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well, you will soon see. Pay close attention, and let us hope that you
+      will not be deceived.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I have it. Little Marie, I should be very much obliged if you would come
+      into the house for a minute before you go straight on to Ormeaux. You are
+      quick-witted; you have always shown that you are not stupid, and nothing
+      escapes your notice. Should you see anything to rouse your suspicions, you
+      must warn me of it very quietly.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh! no, Germain, I will not do that; I should be too much afraid of
+      making a mistake; and, besides, if a word lightly spoken were to turn you
+      against this marriage, your family would bear me a grudge, and I have
+      plenty of troubles now without bringing any more on my poor dear mother.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      As they were talking thus, the gray pricked up her ears and shied; then
+      returning on her steps, she approached the bushes, where she began to
+      recognize something which had frightened her at first. Germain cast his
+      eye over the thicket, and in a ditch, beneath the branches of a scrub-oak,
+      still thick and green, he saw something which he took for a lamb.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;The little creature is strayed or dead, for it does not move. Perhaps
+      some one is looking for it; we must see.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is not an animal,&rdquo; cried little Marie; &ldquo;it is a sleeping child. It is
+      your Petit-Pierre.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Heavens!&rdquo; exclaimed Germain; &ldquo;see the little scamp asleep so far away
+      from home, and in a ditch where a snake might bite him!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He lifted up the child, who smiled as he opened his eyes and threw his
+      arms about his father's neck, saying: &ldquo;Dear little father, you are going
+      to take me with you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, yes; always the same tune. What were you doing there, you naughty
+      Pierre?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I was waiting for my little father to go by. I was watching the road, and
+      I watched so hard that I fell asleep.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And if I had passed by without seeing you, you would have been out of
+      doors all night, and a wolf would have eaten you up.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, I knew very well that you would see me,&rdquo; answered Petit-Pierre,
+      confidently.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well, kiss me now, bid me good-by, and run back quickly to the house,
+      unless you wish them to have supper without you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Are you not going to take me, then?&rdquo; cried the little boy, beginning to
+      rub his eyes to show that he was thinking of tears.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You know very well that grandpapa and grand-mama do not wish it,&rdquo; said
+      Germain, fortifying himself behind the authority of his elders, like a man
+      who distrusts his own.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The child would not listen. He began to cry with all his might, saying
+      that as long as his father was taking little Marie, he might just as well
+      take him too. They replied that they must pass through great woods filled
+      with wicked beasts who eat up little children. The gray would not carry
+      three people; she had said so when they were starting, and in the country
+      where they were going there was no bed and no supper for little boys. All
+      these good reasons could not persuade Petit-Pierre; he threw himself on
+      the ground, and rolled about, shrieking that his little father did not
+      love him any more, and that if he did not take him he would never go back
+      to the house at all, day or night.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain had a father's heart, as soft and weak as a woman's. His-wife's
+      death, and the care which he had been obliged to bestow all alone on his
+      little ones, as well as the thought that these poor motherless children
+      needed a great deal of love, combined to make him thus. So such a sharp
+      struggle went on within him, all the more because he was ashamed of his
+      weakness and tried to hide his confusion from little Marie, that the sweat
+      started out on his forehead, and his eyes grew red and almost ready to
+      weep. At last he tried to get angry, but as he turned toward little Marie
+      in order to let her witness his strength of mind, he saw that the good
+      girls face was wet with tears; all his courage forsook him and he could
+      not keep back his own, scold and threaten as he would.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Truly your heart is too hard,&rdquo; said little Marie at last, &ldquo;and for myself
+      I know that I never could refuse a child who felt so badly. Come, Germain,
+      let 's take him. Your mare is well used to carrying two people and a
+      child, for you know that your brother-in-law and his wife, who is much
+      heavier than I, go to market every Saturday with their boy on this good
+      beast's back. Take him on the horse in front of you. Besides, I should
+      rather walk on foot all alone than give this little boy so much pain.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Never mind,&rdquo; answered Germain, who was dying to allow himself to give
+      way. &ldquo;The gray is strong, and could carry two more if there were room on
+      her back. But what can we do with this child on the way? He will be cold
+      and hungry, and who will take care of him to-night and tomorrow, put him
+      to bed, wash him, and dress him? I don't dare give this trouble to a woman
+      I don't know, who will think, doubtless, that I am exceedingly free and
+      easy with her to begin with.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Trust me, Germain, you will know her at once by the kindness or the
+      impatience that she shows. If she does not care to receive your Pierre, I
+      will take charge of him myself. I will go to her house and dress him, and
+      I will take him to the fields with me to-morrow. I will amuse him all day
+      long, and take good care that he does not want for anything.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He will tire you, my poor girl, and give you trouble. A whole day is a
+      long time.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not at all; it will give me pleasure; he will keep me company, and that
+      will make me less sad the first day that I must pass in a new place. I
+      shall fancy that I am still at home.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Seeing that little Marie was pleading for her, the child seized upon her
+      skirt and held it so tight that they must have hurt him in order to tear
+      it away. When he perceived that his father was weakening, he took Marie's
+      hand in both his tiny sunburned fists and kissed her, leaping for joy, and
+      pulling her toward the mare with the burning impatience children feel in
+      their desires.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Come along,&rdquo; said the young girl, lifting him in her arms; &ldquo;let us try to
+      quiet his poor little heart. It is fluttering like a little bird; and if
+      you feel the cold when night comes on, tell me, my Pierre, and I will wrap
+      you in my cape. Kiss your little father, and beg his pardon for being
+      naughty. Tell him that you will never, never be so again. Do you hear?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, yes, provided that I always do just as he wishes. Is n't it so?&rdquo;
+       said Germain, drying the little boy's eyes with his handkerchief. &ldquo;Marie,
+      you are spoiling the little rascal. But really and truly, you are too
+      good, little Marie. I don't know why you did not come to us as shepherdess
+      last Saint John's Day. You would have taken care of my children, and I
+      should much rather pay a good price for their sake than try to find a
+      woman who will think, perhaps, she is doing me a great kindness if she
+      does not detest them.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You must not look on the dark side of things,&rdquo; answered little Marie,
+      holding the horse's bridle while Germain placed his son in front of the
+      big pack-saddle covered with goatskin. &ldquo;If your wife does not care for
+      children, take me into your service next year, and you may be sure I shall
+      amuse them so well that they will not notice anything.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0007" id="linklink2H_4_0007">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      VI &mdash; On the Heath
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;DEAR ME,&rdquo; said Germain, after they had gone a few steps farther, &ldquo;what
+      will they think at home when they miss the little man? The family will be
+      worried, and will be looking everywhere for him.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You can tell the man who is mending the road up there that you are taking
+      him along, and ask him to speak to your people.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That is very true, Marie; you don't forget anything. It never occurred to
+      me that Jeannie must be there.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He lives close to the farm, and he will not fail to do your errand.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      When they had taken this precaution, Germain put the mare to a trot, and
+      Petit-Pierre was so overjoyed that for a time he forgot that he had gone
+      without his dinner; but the motion of the horse gave him a hollow feeling
+      in his stomach, and at the end of a league, he began to gape and grow
+      pale, and confessed that he was dying of hunger.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;This is the way it begins,&rdquo; exclaimed Germain. &ldquo;I was quite sure that we
+      should not go far without this young gentleman crying with hunger or
+      thirst.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am thirsty, too!&rdquo; said Petit-Pierre.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Very well, then, let 's go to Mother Rebec's tavern at Corlay, the sign
+      of 'The Dawn'&mdash;a pretty sign, but a poor lodging. You will take
+      something to drink, too, will you not, Marie?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, no; I don't want anything. I will hold the mare while you go in with
+      the child.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But I remember, my good girl, that this morning you gave the bread from
+      your own breakfast to my Pierre. You have had nothing to eat. You would
+      not take dinner with us at home; you would do nothing but cry.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, I was not hungry; I felt too sad, and I give you my word that even
+      now I have no desire to eat.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You must oblige yourself to eat, little girl, else you will fall sick. We
+      have a long way to go, and it will not do to arrive half-starved and beg
+      for bread before we say how d' ye do. I shall set you a good example
+      myself, although I am not very hungry: and I am sure that I can, for,
+      after all, I did not eat any dinner. I saw you crying, you and your
+      mother, and it made me feel sad. Come along. I am going to tie the gray at
+      the door. Get down; I wish you to.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      All three entered the inn, and in less than fifteen minutes the fat, lame
+      hostess was able to place before them a nice-looking omelette, some brown
+      bread, and a bottle of light wine.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Peasants do not eat quickly, and little Pierre had such a good appetite
+      that a whole hour passed before Germain could think of starting out again.
+      At first little Marie ate in order to be obliging; then little by little
+      she grew hungry. For, at sixteen, a girl cannot fast for long, and country
+      air is dictatorial.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The kind words with which Germain knew how to comfort her and strengthen
+      her courage, produced their effect. She tried hard to persuade herself
+      that seven months would soon be over, and to think of the pleasure in
+      store for her when she saw once more her family and her hamlet; for Father
+      Maurice and Germain had both promised to take her into their service. But
+      just as she began to cheer up and play with little Pierre, Germain was so
+      unfortunate as to point out to her from the inn window the lovely view of
+      the valley which can all be seen from this height, and which looks so
+      happy and green and fertile.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Marie looked and asked if the houses of Belair were in sight.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No doubt,&rdquo; said Germain, &ldquo;and the farm, too, and even your house&mdash;see!
+      that tiny gray spot not far from Godard's big poplar, below the belfry.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Ah, I see it,&rdquo; said the little girl; and then she began to cry.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I ought not to have made you think of it,&rdquo; said Germain. &ldquo;I can do
+      nothing but stupid things today. Come along, Marie; let 's start, and in
+      an hour, when the moon rises, it will not be hot.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      They resumed their journey across the great heath, and for fear of tiring
+      the young girl and the child by too rapid a trot, Germain did not make the
+      gray go very fast. The sun had set when they left the road to enter the
+      wood.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain knew the way as far as Magnier, but he thought it would be shorter
+      to avoid the Chantaloube road and descend by Presles and La Sépulture, a
+      route he was not in the habit of taking on his way to the fair. He lost
+      his way, and wasted more time before he reached the wood. Even then he did
+      not enter it on the right side, although he did not perceive his mistake,
+      so that he turned his back on Fourche, and took a direction higher up on
+      the way to Ardente.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He was prevented still further from finding his way by a thick mist which
+      rose as the night fell; one of those mists which come on autumn evenings
+      when the whiteness of the moonlight renders them more undefined and more
+      treacherous. The great pools of water scattered through the glades gave
+      forth a vapor so dense that when the gray crossed them, their presence was
+      known only by a splashing noise, and the difficulty with which she drew
+      her feet from the mud.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At last they found a good straight road, and when they came to the end of
+      it, and Germain tried to discover where he was, he saw that he was lost.
+      For Father Maurice had told him, when he explained the way, that on
+      leaving the wood he must descend a very steep hillside, cross a wide
+      meadow, and ford the river twice. He had even warned him to cross this
+      river carefully; for, early in the season, there had been great rains, and
+      the water might still be higher than usual. Seeing neither hillside nor
+      meadows, nor river, but a heath, level and white as a mantle of snow,
+      Germain stopped, looked about for a house, and waited for a passer-by, but
+      could find nothing to set him right. Then he retraced his steps and
+      reentered the wood. But the mist thickened yet more, the moon was
+      completely hidden, the roads were execrable, and the quagmires deep. Twice
+      the gray almost fell. Her heavy load made her lose courage, and although
+      she kept enough sagacity to avoid the tree-trunks, she could not prevent
+      her riders from striking the great branches which overhung the road at the
+      height of their heads and caused them great danger. In one of these
+      collisions Germain lost his hat, and only recovered it after much
+      difficulty. Petit-Pierre had fallen asleep, and, lying like a log in his
+      father's arms, hampered him so that he could no longer hold up nor direct
+      the horse.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I believe we are bewitched,&rdquo; exclaimed Germain, stopping; &ldquo;for the wood
+      is not large enough to get lost in, if a man is not drunk, and here we
+      have been turning round and round for two hours at least, without finding
+      a way out. The gray has but one idea in her head, and that is to get home.
+      It is she who is deceiving me. If we wish to go home, we have only to give
+      her the bit. But when we are perhaps but two steps from our journey's end,
+      it would be foolish to give up and return such a long road; and yet I am
+      at a loss what to do. I cant see sky or earth, and I am afraid that the
+      child will catch the fever if we remain in this cursed fog, or that he
+      will be crushed beneath our weight if the horse falls forward.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;We must not persist longer,&rdquo; said little Marie. &ldquo;Let 's dismount,
+      Germain. Give me the child; I can carry him perfectly well, and I know
+      better than you how to keep the cloak from falling open and leaving him
+      exposed. You lead the mare by her bridle. Perhaps we shall see more
+      clearly when we are nearer the ground.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      This precaution was of service only in saving them from a fall, for the
+      fog hung low and seemed to stick to the damp earth.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Their advance was painfully slow, and they were soon so weary that they
+      halted when they reached a dry spot beneath the great oaks.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Little Marie was in a violent sweat, but she uttered not a word of
+      complaint, nor did she worry about anything. Thinking only of the child,
+      she sat down on the sand and laid it upon her knees, while Germain
+      explored the neighborhood, after having fastened the gray's reins to the
+      branch of a tree.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But the gray was very dissatisfied with the journey. She reared suddenly,
+      broke the reins loose, burst her girths, and giving, by way of receipt,
+      half a dozen kicks higher than her head, she started across the clearing,
+      showing very plainly that she needed no one to show her the way home.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well, here we are afoot,&rdquo; said Germain, after a vain attempt to catch the
+      horse, &ldquo;and it would do us no good now if we were on the good road, for we
+      should have to ford the river on foot, and since these paths are filled
+      with water, we may be sure that the meadow is wholly submerged. We don't
+      know the other routes. We must wait until this fog clears. It can't last
+      more than an hour or two; as soon as we can see clearly, we shall look
+      about for a house, the first we come to near the edge of the wood. But for
+      the present we can't stir from here. There is a ditch and a pond over
+      there. Heaven knows what is in front of us, and what is behind us is more
+      than I can say now, for I have forgotten which way we came.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0008" id="linklink2H_4_0008">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      VII &mdash; Underneath the Big Oaks
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;WELL, we must be patient, Germain,&rdquo; said little Marie. &ldquo;We are not badly
+      off on this little hillock. The rain does not pierce the leaves of these
+      big oaks, and we can light a fire, for I can feel old stumps which stir
+      readily and are dry enough to burn. You have a light, Germain, have you
+      not? You were smoking your pipe a few minutes ago.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I did have; my tinderbox was in my bag on the saddle with the game that I
+      was bringing to my bride that is to be, but that devilish mare has run
+      away with everything, even with my cloak, which she will lose and tear to
+      bits on every branch she comes to.&rdquo; &ldquo;No, no, Germain; saddle and cloak and
+      bag are all there on the ground at your feet. The gray burst her girths,
+      and threw off everything as she ran away.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That's true, thank God,&rdquo; exclaimed the laborer; &ldquo;if we can grope about
+      and find a little dead wood, we shall be able to dry ourselves and get
+      warm.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That 's not difficult,&rdquo; said little Marie; &ldquo;dead wood always cracks when
+      you step on it. But will you give me the saddle?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What do you want of it?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;To make a bed for the child. No, not that way. Upside down. He will not
+      roll off into the hollow, and it is still very warm from the horse's back.
+      Prop it up all around with the stones that you see there.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I can't see a stone; you must have cat's eyes.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;There, it is all done, Germain. Hand me your cloak so that you can wrap
+      up his little feet, and throw my cape over his body. Just see if he is not
+      as comfortable as though he were in his own bed, and feel how warm he is.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You certainly know how to take care of children, Marie.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I need not be a witch to do that; now get your tinderbox from your bag,
+      and I will arrange the wood.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;This wood will never catch fire; it is too damp.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are always doubting, Germain. Don't you remember when you were a
+      shepherd, and made big fires in the fields right in the midst of the
+      rain?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, that is a knack that belongs to children who take care of sheep; but
+      I was made to drive the oxen as soon as I could walk.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That is what has made your arms strong and your hands quick! Here, the
+      fire is built; you shall see whether it does not burn. Give me the light
+      and a handful of dry ferns. That is all right Now blow; you are not
+      consumptive, are you?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not that I know of,&rdquo; said Germain, blowing like a smith's bellows. In an
+      instant the flame leaped up, and throwing out a red glare, it rose finally
+      in pale blue jets under the oak branches, battling with the fog, and
+      gradually drying the atmosphere for ten feet around.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Now I am going to sit by the child, so that the sparks may not fall on
+      him,&rdquo; said the young girl. &ldquo;Pile on the wood and stir up the fire,
+      Germain; we shall not catch cold nor fever here, I will answer for it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Upon my word, you are a clever girl,&rdquo; said Germain; &ldquo;and you know how to
+      make a fire like a little fairy of the night. I feel quite revived, and my
+      courage has come back again; for with my legs drenched up to the knees,
+      and with the thought of staying this way till daylight, I was in a very
+      bad temper just now.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And when people are in a bad temper they don't think of anything,&rdquo;
+       answered little Marie.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And are you never bad-tempered?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, never; what is the good of it?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, of course, there is no good; but how can you help it when you have
+      troubles? Yet Heaven knows that you have not lacked them, my little girl;
+      for you have not always been happy.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is true that my mother and I have suffered. We have had sorrows, but
+      we have never lost heart.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I should never lose heart, no matter how hard my work was,&rdquo; said Germain,
+      &ldquo;but poverty would make me very sad; for I have never wanted for anything.
+      My wife made me rich, and I am rich still; I shall be so as long as I work
+      on the farm; and that will be always, I hope. But everybody must suffer
+      his share! I have suffered in another way.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes; you have lost your wife. That is very sad.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Is n't it?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh! Germain, I have wept for her many a time. She was so very kind! But
+      don't let us talk about her longer, for I shall burst out crying. All my
+      troubles are ready to come back to me to-day.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is true, she loved you dearly, little Marie. She used to make a great
+      deal of you and your mother. Are you crying? Come, my girl, I don't want
+      to cry....&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But you are crying, Germain! You are crying as hard as I. Why should a
+      man be ashamed to weep for his wife? Don't let me trouble you. That sorrow
+      is mine as well as yours.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You have a kind heart, Marie, and it does me good to weep with you. Put
+      your feet nearer the fire; your skirts are all soaked, too, poor little
+      girl. I am going to take your place by the boy. You move nearer the fire.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am hot enough,&rdquo; said Marie; &ldquo;and if you wish to sit down, take a corner
+      of the cloak. I am perfectly comfortable.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;The truth is that it is not so bad here,&rdquo; said Germain, as he sat down
+      beside her. &ldquo;Only I feel very hungry again. It is almost nine o'clock, and
+      I have had such hard work in walking over these vile roads that I feel
+      quite tired out. Are you not hungry, too, little Marie?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I?&mdash;not at all. I am not accustomed like you to four meals a day,
+      and I have been to bed so often without my supper that once more does not
+      trouble me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;A woman like you is very convenient; she costs nothing,&rdquo; said Germain,
+      smiling.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am not a woman,&rdquo; exclaimed Marie, naïvely, without perceiving the
+      direction the husbandman's ideas had taken. &ldquo;Are you dreaming?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, I believe I must be dreaming,&rdquo; answered Germain. &ldquo;Perhaps hunger is
+      making my mind wander.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;How greedy you are,&rdquo; answered she, brightening in her turn. &ldquo;Well, if you
+      can't live five or six hours without eating, have you not game in your bag
+      and fire to cook it?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;By Jove, that's a good idea! But how about the present to my future
+      father-in-law?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You have six partridges and a hare! I suppose you do not need all of them
+      to satisfy your appetite.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But how can we cook them without a spit or andirons. They will be burned
+      to a cinder!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not at all,&rdquo; said little Marie; &ldquo;I warrant that I can cook them for you
+      under the cinders without a taste of smoke. Have you never caught larks in
+      the fields, and cooked them between two stones? Oh! that is true&mdash;I
+      keep forgetting that you have never been a shepherd. Come, pluck the
+      partridge. Not so hard! You will tear the skin.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You might be plucking the other to show me how!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then you wish to eat two? What an ogre you are! They are all plucked. I
+      am going to cook them.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You would make a perfect little sutler's girl, Marie, but unhappily you
+      have no canteen, and I shall have to drink water from this pool!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You would like some wine, would you not? Possibly you might prefer
+      coffee. You imagine yourself under the trees at the fair. Call out the
+      host. Some wine for the good husbandman of Belair!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You little witch, you are making fun of me! Would not you drink some wine
+      if you had it?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I? At Mother Rebec's, with you to-night, I drank some for the second time
+      in my life. But if you are very good, I shall give you a bottle almost
+      full, and excellent too.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What? Marie, I verily believe you are a witch!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Were you not foolish enough to ask for two bottles of wine at the inn?
+      You and your boy drank one, and the other you set before me. I hardly
+      drank three drops, yet you paid for both without looking.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What then?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why, I put the full one in my basket, because I thought that you or your
+      child would be thirsty on the journey. And here it is.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are the most thoughtful girl I have ever met. Although the poor child
+      was crying when we left the inn, that did not prevent her from thinking of
+      others more than of herself. Little Marie, the man who marries you will be
+      no fool.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I hope not, for I am not fond of fools. Come, eat up your partridges;
+      they are done to a turn; and for want of bread, you must be satisfied with
+      chestnuts.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Where the deuce did you find chestnuts, too?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is extraordinary! All along the road I picked them off the branches as
+      we went along, and filled my pockets.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And are they cooked, too?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Where would my wits have been had I not had sense enough to put the
+      chestnuts in the fire as soon as it was lighted? That is the way we always
+      do in the fields.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;So we are going to take supper together, little Marie. I want to drink
+      your health and wish you a good husband, just the sort of a man that will
+      suit you. Tell me what kind you want.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I should find that very difficult, Germain, for I have not thought about
+      it yet.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What, not at all? Never?&rdquo; said Germain, as he began to eat with a
+      laborer's appetite, yet stopping to cut off the more tender morsels for
+      his companion, who persisted in refusing them and contented herself with a
+      few chestnuts.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Tell me, little Marie,&rdquo; he went on, seeing that she had no intention of
+      answering him, &ldquo;have you never thought of marrying? Yet you are old
+      enough?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Perhaps,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;but I am too poor. I need at least a hundred crowns
+      to marry, and I must work five or six years to scrape them together.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Poor girl, I wish Father Maurice were willing to give me a hundred crowns
+      to make you a present of.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Thank you kindly, Germain. What do you suppose people would say of me?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What do you wish them to say of you? They know very well that I am too
+      old to marry you. They would never believe that I&mdash;that you&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Look, Germain, your child is waking up,&rdquo; said little Marie.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0009" id="linklink2H_4_0009">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      VIII &mdash; The Evening Prayer
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      PETIT-PIERRE had raised his head and was looking about him with a
+      thoughtful air.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, that is the way he always does, whenever he hears the sound of
+      eating,&rdquo; said Germain. &ldquo;The explosion of a cannon would not rouse him, but
+      if you work your jaws near him, he opens his eyes at once.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You must have been just like him at his age,&rdquo; said little Marie, with a
+      sly smile. &ldquo;See! my Petit-Pierre, you are looking for your canopy.
+      To-night it is made all of green, my child; but your father eats his
+      supper none the less. Do you wish to sup with him? I have not eaten your
+      share; I thought that you might claim it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Marie, I wish you to eat,&rdquo; cried the husbandman; &ldquo;I shall not touch
+      another morsel. I am a greedy glutton. You are depriving yourself for our
+      sake. It is not fair. I am ashamed. It takes away all my appetite. I will
+      not have my son eat his supper unless you take some too.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Leave us alone,&rdquo; said little Marie; &ldquo;you have not the key to our
+      appetites. Mine is tight shut to-day, but your Pierre's is as wide open as
+      a little wolfs. Just see how he seizes his food. He will be a strong
+      workman too, some day!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      In truth, Petit-Pierre showed very soon whose son he was, and though
+      scarcely awake and wholly at a loss to know where he was and how he had
+      come there, he began to eat ravenously. As soon as his hunger was
+      appeased, feeling excited as children do who break loose from their wonted
+      habits, he had more wit, more curiosity, and more good sense than usual.
+      He made them explain to him where he was, and when he found that he was in
+      the midst of a forest, he grew a little frightened.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Are there wicked beasts in this forest?&rdquo; he demanded of his father.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, none at all. Don't be afraid.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then you told a story when you said that if I went with you into the
+      great forest, the wolves would carry me off.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Just see this logician,&rdquo; said Germain, embarrassed.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He is right,&rdquo; replied little Marie. &ldquo;That is what you told him. He has a
+      good memory, and has not forgotten. But, little Pierre, you must learn
+      that your father never tells a story. We passed through the big forest
+      whilst you were sleeping, and now we are in the small forest where there
+      are no wicked beasts.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Is the little forest very far away from the big one?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Far enough; besides, the wolves never go out of the big forest. And then,
+      if some of them should come here, your father would kill them.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And you too, little Marie?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, we, too, for you would help also, my Pierre. You are not frightened,
+      are you? You would beat them soundly?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, indeed, I would,&rdquo; said the child, proudly, as he struck a heroic
+      attitude; &ldquo;we would kill them.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;There is nobody like you for talking to children and for making them
+      listen to reason,&rdquo; said Germain to little Marie. &ldquo;To be sure, it is not
+      long ago since you were a small child yourself, and you have not forgotten
+      what your mother used to say to you. I believe that the younger one is,
+      the better one gets on with children. I am very much afraid that a woman
+      of thirty who does not yet know what it is to be a mother, would find it
+      hard to prattle to children and reason with them.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why, Germain? I don't know why you have such a bad idea of this woman;
+      you will change your mind.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;The devil take the woman!&rdquo; exclaimed Germain. &ldquo;I wish I were going away
+      from her forever. What do I want of a wife whom I don't know?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Little father,&rdquo; said the child, &ldquo;why is it that you speak so much of your
+      wife to-day, since she is dead?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then you have not forgotten your poor, dear mother?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No; for I saw her placed in a beautiful box of white wood, and my
+      grandmother led me up to her to kiss her and say good-by. She was very
+      white and very stiff, and every evening my aunt made me pray God that she
+      might go to him in Heaven and be warm. Do you think that she is there
+      now?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I hope so, my child; but you must always pray. It shows your mother that
+      you love her.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am going to say my prayers,&rdquo; answered the boy. &ldquo;I forgot them to-night.
+      But I can't say them all alone, for I always forget something. Little
+      Marie must help me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, my Pierre, I will help you,&rdquo; said the young girl. &ldquo;Come and kneel
+      down in my lap.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The child knelt down on the girl's skirt. He clasped his little hands and
+      began to say his prayers, at first with great care and earnestness, for he
+      knew the beginning very well, then slowly and with more hesitation, and
+      finally repeating word by word after Marie, when he came to that place in
+      his prayer where sleep overtook him so invariably that he had never been
+      able to learn the end. This time again the effort of close attention and
+      the monotony of his own accent produced their wonted effect. He pronounced
+      the last syllables with great difficulty, and only after they were thrice
+      repeated.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      His head grew heavy and fell on Marie's breast; his hands unclasped,
+      divided, and fell open on his knees. By the light of the camp-fire,
+      Germain watched his little darling hushed at the heart of the young girl,
+      who, as she held him in her arms and warmed his fair hair with her sweet
+      breath, had herself fallen into a holy reverie, and prayed in quiet for
+      the soul of Catherine.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain was touched. He tried to express to little Marie the grateful
+      esteem which he felt for her, but he could find no fitting words.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He approached her to kiss his son, whom she held close to her breast, and
+      he could scarcely raise his lips from little Pierre's brow.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You kiss too hard,&rdquo; said Marie, gently pushing away the husbandman's
+      head. &ldquo;You will wake him. Let me put him back to bed, for the boy has left
+      us already for dreams of paradise.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The child allowed Marie to lay him down, but feeling the goatskin on the
+      saddle, he asked if he were on the gray. Then opening his big blue eyes,
+      and keeping them fixed on the branches for a minute, he seemed to be
+      dreaming, wide-awake as he was, or to be struck with an idea which had
+      slipped his mind during the daytime, and only assumed a distinct form at
+      the approach of sleep.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Little father,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;if you wish to give me a new mother, I hope it
+      will be little Marie.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      And without waiting for an answer, he closed his eyes and slept.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0010" id="linklink2H_4_0010">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      IX &mdash; Despite the Cold
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      LITTLE MARIE seemed to give no more heed to the child's odd words than to
+      regard them as a proof of friendship. She wrapped him up with care,
+      stirred the fire, and as the fog resting on the neighboring pool gave no
+      sign of lifting, she advised Germain to lie near the fire and take a nap.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I see that you are sleepy already,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;for you don't say a word
+      and you gaze into the fire, just as your little boy was doing.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is you who must sleep,&rdquo; answered the husbandman, &ldquo;and I will take care
+      of both of you, for I have never felt less sleepy than I do now. I have
+      fifty things to think of.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Fifty is a great many,&rdquo; said the little girl, with a mocking accent.
+      &ldquo;There are lots of people who would be delighted to have one.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well, if I am too stupid to have fifty, I have one, at least, which has
+      not left me for the past hour.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And I shall tell it to you as well as I told you those you thought of
+      before.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, do tell me if you know, Marie. Tell me yourself. I shall be glad to
+      hear.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;An hour ago,&rdquo; she answered, &ldquo;your idea was to eat&mdash;and now it is to
+      sleep.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Marie, I am only an ox-driver, but, upon my word, you take me for an ox.
+      You are very perverse, and it is easy to see that you do not care to talk
+      to me, so go to sleep. That will be better than to pick flaws in a man who
+      is out of sorts.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;If you wish to talk, let 's talk,&rdquo; said the girl, half reclining near the
+      child and resting her head against the saddle. &ldquo;You torment yourself,
+      Germain, and you do not show much courage for a man. What would n't I say
+      if I did n't do my best to fight my own troubles?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, that's very true, and that 's just what I am thinking of, my poor
+      child. You are going to live, away from your friends, in a horrid country
+      full of moors and fens, where you will catch the autumn fevers. Sheep do
+      not pay well there, and this is always discouraging for a shepherdess if
+      she means well. Then you will be surrounded by strangers who may not be
+      kind to you and will not know how much you are worth. It makes me more
+      sorry than I can tell you, and I have a great desire to take you home to
+      your mother instead of going on to Fourche.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You talk very kindly, but there is no reason for your misgivings, my poor
+      Germain. You ought not to lose heart on your friend's account, and instead
+      of showing me the dark side of my lot, you should show me the bright side,
+      as you did after lunch at Rebec's.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What can I do? That 's the way it appeared to me then, and now my ideas
+      are changed. It is best for you to take a husband.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That cannot be, Germain, and as it is out of the question, I think no
+      more about it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yet such a thing might happen. Perhaps if you told me what kind of a man
+      you want, I might imagine somebody.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Imagining is not finding. For myself, I never imagine, for it does no
+      good.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are not looking for a rich man?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Certainly not, for I am as poor as Job.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But if he were comfortably off, you would n't be sorry to have a good
+      house, and good food, and good clothes, and to live with an honest family
+      who would allow you to help your mother.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, yes indeed! It is my own wish to help my mother.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And if this man were to turn up, you would not be too hard to please,
+      even if he were not so very young.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Ah! There you must excuse me, Germain. That is just the point I insist
+      on. I could never love an old man.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;An old man, of course not; but a man of my age, for example!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Your age is too old for me, Germain. I should like Bastien's age, though
+      Bastien is not so good-looking as you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Should you rather have Bastien, the swineherd?&rdquo; said Germain,
+      indignantly. &ldquo;A fellow with eyes shaped like those of the pigs he drives!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I could excuse his eyes, because he is eighteen.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain felt terribly jealous.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;it's clear that you want Bastien, but, none the less, it
+      's a queer idea.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, that would be a queer idea,&rdquo; answered little Marie, bursting into
+      shouts of laughter, &ldquo;and he would make a queer husband. You could gull him
+      to your heart's content. For instance, the other day, I had picked up a
+      tomato in the curate's garden. I told him that it was a fine, red apple,
+      and he bit into it like a glutton. If you had only seen what a face he
+      made. Heavens! how ugly he was!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then you don't love him, since you are making fun of him.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That would n't be a reason. But I don't like him. He is unkind to his
+      little sister, and he is dirty.&rdquo; &ldquo;Don't you care for anybody else?&rdquo; &ldquo;How
+      does that concern you, Germain?&rdquo; &ldquo;Not at all, except that it gives me
+      something to talk about. I see very well, little girl, that you have a
+      sweetheart in your mind already.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, Germain, you 're wrong. I have no sweetheart yet. Perhaps one may
+      come later, but since I cannot marry until I have something laid by, I am
+      destined to marry late in life and with an old man.&rdquo; &ldquo;Then take an old man
+      without delay.&rdquo; &ldquo;No. When I am no longer young, I shall not care; for the
+      present, it is different.&rdquo; &ldquo;I see that I displease you, Marie; that's
+      clear enough,&rdquo; said Germain, impatiently, and without stopping to weigh
+      his words.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Little Marie did not answer. Germain bent over her. She was sleeping. She
+      had fallen back, overcome, stricken down, as it were, by slumber, as
+      children are who sleep before they cease to babble.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain was glad that she had not caught his last words. He felt that they
+      were unwise, and he turned his back to distract his attention and change
+      his thoughts.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was all in vain. He could neither sleep nor think of anything except
+      the words he had just spoken. He walked about the fire twenty times; he
+      moved away; he came back. At last, feeling himself tremble as though he
+      had swallowed gunpowder, he leaned against the tree which sheltered the
+      two children, and watched them as they slept.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I know not how it is,&rdquo; thought he; &ldquo;I have never noticed that little
+      Marie is the prettiest girl in the countryside. She has not much color,
+      but her little face is fresh as a wild rose. What a charming mouth she
+      has, and how pretty her little nose is! She is not large for her age, but
+      she is formed like a little quail and is as light as a bird. I cannot
+      understand why they made so much fuss at home over a big, fat woman with a
+      bright red face. My wife was rather slender and pale, and she pleased me
+      more than any one else. This girl is very frail, but she is healthy, and
+      she is pretty to watch as a white kid. And then she has such a gentle,
+      frank expression. You can read her good heart in her eyes even though they
+      are closed in sleep. As to wit, I must confess she has more than ever my
+      dear Catherine had, and she would never become wearisome. She is gay,
+      wise, industrious, loving, and she is amusing. I don't know what more I
+      could wish for....
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But what is the use of thinking of all this?&rdquo; Germain went on, trying to
+      look in another direction. &ldquo;My father-in-law would not hear of it, and all
+      the family would think me mad! Besides, she would not have me herself,
+      poor child! She thinks me too old; she told me so. She is unselfish, and
+      does not mind poverty and worry, wearing old clothes, and suffering from
+      hunger for two or three months every year, so long as she can satisfy her
+      heart some day and give herself to the man she loves. She is right. I
+      should do the same in her place, and even now, if I had my own way,
+      instead of marrying a wife whom I don't care for, I would choose a girl
+      after my own heart.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The more Germain tried to compose himself by reasoning, the further he was
+      from succeeding. He walked away a dozen steps, to lose himself in the fog;
+      then, all of a sudden, he found himself on his knees beside the two
+      sleeping children. Once he wished to kiss Petit-Pierre, who had one arm
+      about Marie's neck, and made such a mistake that Marie felt a breath, hot
+      as fire, cross her lips, and awaking, looked about her with a bewildered
+      expression, totally ignorant of all that was passing within his mind.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I did n't see you, my poor children,&rdquo; said Germain, retreating rapidly.
+      &ldquo;I almost stumbled over you and hurt you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Little Marie was so innocent that she believed him, and fell asleep again.
+      Germain walked to the opposite side of the fire, and swore to God that he
+      would not stir until she had waked. He kept his word, but not without a
+      struggle. He thought that he would go mad.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At length, toward midnight, the fog lifted, and Germain could see the
+      stars shining through the trees. The moon freed herself from the mist
+      which had hidden her, and began to sow her diamonds over the damp moss.
+      The trunks of the oak-trees remained in impressive darkness, but beyond,
+      the white branches of the birch-trees seemed a long line of phantoms in
+      their shrouds. The fire cast its reflection in the pool; and the frogs,
+      growing accustomed to the light, hazarded a few shrill and uneasy notes;
+      the rugged branches of the old trees, bristling with dim-colored lichens,
+      crossed and intertwined themselves, like great gaunt arms, above the
+      travelers' heads. It was a lovely spot, but so lonely and so sad that
+      Germain, unable to endure it more, began to sing and throw stones into the
+      water to forget the dread weariness of solitude. He was anxious also to
+      wake little Marie, and when he saw her rise and look about at the weather,
+      he proposed that they start on their journey.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;In two hours,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;the approach of morning will chill the air so
+      that we can't stay here in spite of our fire. Now we can see our way, and
+      we shall soon find a house which will open its doors to us, or at least a
+      barn where we can pass the rest of the night under shelter.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Marie had no will of her own, and although she was longing to sleep, she
+      made ready to follow Germain. The husbandman took his boy in his arms
+      without awaking him, and beckoned Marie to come nearer, in order to cover
+      her with his cloak. For she would not take her own mantle, which was
+      wrapped about the child.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When he felt the young girl so close to him, Germain, who for a time had
+      succeeded in distracting his mind and raising his spirits, began to lose
+      his head once more. Two or three times he strode ahead abruptly, leaving
+      her to walk alone. Then seeing how hard it was for her to follow, he
+      waited, drew her quickly to his side, and pressed her so tight that she
+      was surprised, and even angry, though she dared not say so.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As they knew not the direction whence they had come, they had no idea of
+      that in which they were going. So they crossed the wood once more, and
+      found themselves afresh before the lonely moor. Then they retraced their
+      steps, and after much turning and twisting they spied a light across the
+      branches.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Good enough! Here 's a house,&rdquo; exclaimed Germain. &ldquo;And the people are
+      already astir, for the fire is lighted. It must be very late.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      It was no house, but the camp-fire, which they had covered before they
+      left, and which had sprung up in the breeze.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      They had tramped for two hours, only to find themselves at the very place
+      from which they had started.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0011" id="linklink2H_4_0011">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      X &mdash; Beneath the Stars
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;THIS time I give up,&rdquo; said Germain, stamping I his foot. &ldquo;We are
+      bewitched, that is certain, and we shall not get away from here before
+      broad day. The devil is in this place!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well, it's of no use to get angry,&rdquo; said Marie. &ldquo;We must take what is
+      given us. Let us make a big fire. The child is so well wrapped up that he
+      is in no danger, and we shall not die from a single night out of doors.
+      Where have you hidden the saddle, Germain? Right in the midst of the
+      holly-bushes,&mdash;what a goose you are! It 's very convenient to get it
+      from there!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Stop, child; hold the boy while I pull his bed from the thorns. I did n't
+      want you to scratch your hands.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It 's all done. Here 's the bed, and a few scratches are not saber-cuts,&rdquo;
+       replied the brave girl.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She proceeded to put the child to bed again, and Petit-Pierre was so sound
+      asleep this time that he knew nothing of his last journey. Germain piled
+      so much wood on the fire that the forest all about glowed with the light.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Little Marie had come to the end of her powers, and although she did not
+      complain, her legs would support her no longer. She was white, and her
+      teeth chattered with cold and weakness. Germain took her in his arms to
+      warm her. The uneasiness, the compassion, the tenderness of movement he
+      could not repress, took possession of his heart and stilled his senses. As
+      by a miracle his tongue was loosened, and every feeling of shame vanished.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Marie,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I like you, and I am very sorry that you don't like me.
+      If you would take me for your husband, there are no fathers, nor family,
+      nor neighbors, nor arguments which could prevent me from giving myself to
+      you. I know how happy you would make my children, and that you would teach
+      them to love the memory of their mother, and with a quiet conscience I
+      could satisfy the wishes of my heart. I have always been fond of you, and
+      now I love you so well that were you to ask me to spend all my life in
+      doing your pleasure, I would swear to do it on the instant. Please think
+      how much I love you, and try to forget my age. Think that it is a wrong
+      notion to believe that a man of thirty is old. Besides, I am but
+      twenty-eight. A young girl is afraid that people will talk about her if
+      she takes a man ten or twelve years older than she, simply because that is
+      not the custom in our country, but I have heard say that in other
+      countries people don't look at it in this light, and that they had rather
+      allow a sensible man of approved courage to support a young girl, than
+      trust her to a mere boy, who may go astray, and, from the honest fellow
+      they thought him, turn into a good-for-nothing. And then years don't
+      always make age. That depends on the health and strength a person has.
+      When a man is used up by overwork and poverty, or by a bad life, he is old
+      before twenty-five. While I&mdash;but Marie, you are not listening....&rdquo;
+       &ldquo;Yes I am, Germain; I hear you perfectly,&rdquo; answered little Marie, &ldquo;but I
+      am thinking over what my mother used to tell me so often: that a woman of
+      sixty is to be pitied greatly when her husband is seventy or seventy-five
+      and can no longer work to support her. He grows feeble, and it becomes her
+      duty to nurse him at the very age when she begins to feel great need of
+      care and rest herself, and so it is that the end comes in a garret.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Parents do well to say so, I admit,&rdquo; answered Germain, &ldquo;but then they
+      would sacrifice all their youth, the best years of their life, to
+      calculating what will become of them at the age when a person is no longer
+      good for anything, and when it is a matter of indifference which way death
+      comes. But I am in no danger of starving in my old age. I am even going to
+      lay by something, since I live with my wife's parents and spend nothing.
+      And then, you see, I shall love you so well that I can never grow old.
+      They say that when a man is happy he keeps sound, and I know well that in
+      love for you, I am younger than Bastien; for he does not love you; he is
+      too stupid, too much of a child to understand how pretty and how good you
+      are, and how you were made for people to court. Do not hate me, Marie. I
+      am not a bad man. I made my Catherine happy, and on her death-bed she
+      swore before God that she had had only happiness of me, and she asked me
+      to marry again. Her spirit must have spoken to her child to-night. Did you
+      not hear the words he said? How his little lips quivered as his eyes
+      stared upward, watching something that we could not see! He was surely
+      looking at his mother, and it was she who made him say that he wished you
+      to take her place.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Germain,&rdquo; answered Marie, amazed and yet thoughtful, &ldquo;you speak frankly,
+      and everything that you say is true. I am sure that I should do well to
+      love you if it did not displease your parents too much. But what can I do?
+      My heart does not speak for you. I am very fond of you, but though your
+      age does not make you ugly, it makes me afraid. It seems as if you were
+      some such relation to me, as an uncle or a godfather, that I must be
+      respectful toward you, and that there might be moments when you would
+      treat me like a little girl rather than like your wife and your equal. And
+      perhaps my friends would make fun of me, and although it would be silly to
+      give heed to that, I think that I should be a little sad on my
+      wedding-day.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Those are but childish reasons, Marie; you speak like a child.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, that is true; I am a child,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and it is on that account I
+      am afraid of too sensible a man. You must see that I am too young for you,
+      since you just found fault with me for speaking foolishly. I can't have
+      more sense than my age allows.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;O Heavens! How unlucky I am to be so clumsy and to express so ill what I
+      think!&rdquo; cried Germain. &ldquo;Marie, you don't love me. That is the long and
+      short of it. You find me too simple and too dull. If you loved me at all,
+      you would not see my faults so clearly. But you do not love me. That is
+      the whole story.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That is not my fault,&rdquo; answered she, a little hurt that he was speaking
+      with less tenderness. &ldquo;I am doing my best to hear you, but the more I try
+      the less I can get it into my head that we ought to be husband and wife.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain did not answer. His head dropped into his hands, and little Marie
+      could not tell whether he wept or sulked or was fast asleep. She felt
+      uneasy when she saw him so cast down, and could not guess what was passing
+      in his mind. But she dared not speak to him more, and as she was too
+      astonished at what had passed to have any desire to sleep, she waited
+      impatiently for dawn, tending the fire with care and watching over the
+      child, whose existence Germain appeared to forget. Yet Germain was not
+      asleep. He did not mope over his lot. He made no plans to encourage
+      himself, nor schemes to entrap the girl. He suffered; he felt a great
+      weight of grief at his heart. He wished that he were dead. The world
+      seemed to turn against him, and if he could have wept at all, his tears
+      would have come in floods. But mingled with his sorrow there was a feeling
+      of anger against himself, and he felt choked, without the power or the
+      wish to complain.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When morning came, and the sounds of the country brought it to Germain's
+      senses, he lifted his head from his hands and rose. He saw that little
+      Marie had slept no more than he, but he knew no words in which to tell her
+      of his anxiety. He was very discouraged. Hiding the gray's saddle once
+      more in the thicket, he slung his sack over his shoulder and took his son
+      by the hand.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Now, Marie,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;we are going to try to end our journey. Do you
+      wish me to take you to Ormeaux?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Let us leave the woods together,&rdquo; answered she, &ldquo;and when we know where
+      we are, we shall separate, and go our different ways.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain did not answer. He felt hurt that the girl did not ask him to take
+      her as far as Ormeaux, and he did not notice that he had asked her in a
+      tone well fitted to provoke a refusal.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After a few hundred steps, they met a wood-cutter, who pointed out the
+      highroad, and told them that when they had crossed the plain, one must
+      turn to the right, the other to the left, to gain their different
+      destinations, which were so near together that the houses of Fourche were
+      in plain sight from the farm of Ormeaux, and <i>vice versa</i>.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When they had thanked him and passed on, the wood-cutter called them back
+      to ask whether they had not lost a horse.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I found a pretty gray mare in my yard, where perhaps a
+      wolf had driven her to seek refuge; my dogs barked the whole night long,
+      and at daybreak I saw the mare under my shed. She is there now. Come along
+      with me, and if you recognize her, you may take her.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      When Germain had given a description of the gray, and felt convinced that
+      it was really she, he started back to find his saddle. Little Marie
+      offered to take his child to Ormeaux, whither he might go to get him after
+      he had introduced himself at Fourche.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He is rather dirty after the night that we have passed,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I
+      will brush his clothes, wash his pretty face, and comb his hair, and when
+      he looks neat and clean, you can present him to your new family.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Who told you that I wish to go to Fourche?&rdquo; answered Germain, petulantly.
+      &ldquo;Perhaps I shall not go.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But truly, Germain, it is your duty to go there. You will go there,&rdquo;
+       replied the girl.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You seem very anxious to have me married off, so that you may be quite
+      sure that I shall not trouble you again?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Germain, you must not think of that any more. It is an idea which came to
+      you in the night, because this unfortunate mishap took away your spirits.
+      But now you must come to your senses. I promise you to forget everything
+      that you said to me, and not to breathe it to a soul.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, say what you wish. It is not my custom to deny what I have spoken.
+      What I told you was true and honest, and I shall not blush for it before
+      anybody.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, but if your wife were to know that just before you came you were
+      thinking of another woman, it would prejudice her against you. So take
+      care how you speak now. Don't look at me before everybody with such a rapt
+      expression. Think of Father Maurice, who relies on your obedience, and who
+      would be enraged at me if I were to turn you from his will. Good-by,
+      Germain. I take Petit-Pierre in order to force you to go to Fourche. He is
+      a pledge which I keep on your behalf.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;So you want to go with her?&rdquo; said the husbandman to his son, seeing that
+      the boy had clasped Marie's hands and was following her resolutely.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, father,&rdquo; answered the child, who had heard the conversation and
+      understood after his own fashion the words spoken so unguardedly before
+      him. &ldquo;I am going away with my dearest little Marie. You shall come to find
+      me when you have done marrying, but I wish Marie to be my little mother.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You see how much he wishes it,&rdquo; said Germain to the girl. &ldquo;Listen to me,
+      Petit-Pierre,&rdquo; he added. &ldquo;I wish her to be your mother and to stay with
+      you always. It is she who does not wish to. Try to make her grant you what
+      she has denied me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Don't be afraid, father, I shall make her say yes. Little Marie does
+      everything that I wish.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He walked away with the young girl. Germain stood alone, sadder and more
+      irresolute than ever.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0012" id="linklink2H_4_0012">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      XI &mdash; The Belle of the Village
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      AND after all, when he had brushed the dust of travel from his clothes and
+      from his horse's harness, when he had mounted the gray, and when he had
+      learned the road, he felt that there was no retreat and that he must
+      forget that anxious night as though it had been a dangerous dream.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He found Father Leonard seated on a trim bench of spinach-green. The six
+      stone steps leading up to the door showed that the house had a cellar. The
+      walls of the garden and of the hemp-field were plastered with lime and
+      sand. It was a handsome house, and might almost have been mistaken for the
+      dwelling of a bourgeois.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain's future father-in-law came forward to meet him, and having plied
+      him, for five minutes, with questions concerning his entire family, he
+      added that conventional phrase with which one passer-by addresses another
+      concerning the object of his journey: &ldquo;So you are taking a little trip in
+      this part of the country?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I have come to see you,&rdquo; replied the husbandman, &ldquo;to give you this little
+      present of game with my father's compliments, and to tell you from him
+      that you ought to know with what intentions I come to your house.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, ho!&rdquo; said Father Leonard, laughing and tapping his capacious stomach,
+      &ldquo;I see, I understand, I am with you, and,&rdquo; he added with a wink, &ldquo;you will
+      not be the only one to pay your court, young man. There are three already
+      in the house dancing attendance like you. I never turn anybody away, and I
+      should find it hard to say yes or no to any of them, for they are all good
+      matches. Yet, on account of Father Maurice and for the sake of the rich
+      fields you till, I hope that it may be you. But my daughter is of age and
+      mistress of her own affairs. She will do as she likes. Go in and introduce
+      yourself. I hope that you will draw the prize.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I beg your pardon,&rdquo; answered Germain, amazed to find himself an extra
+      when he had counted on being alone in the field. &ldquo;I was not aware that
+      your daughter was supplied already with suitors, and I did not come to
+      quarrel over her.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;If you supposed that because you were slow in coming, my daughter would
+      be left unprovided for, you were greatly mistaken, my son,&rdquo; replied Father
+      Leonard with unshaken good humor. &ldquo;Catherine has the wherewithal to
+      attract suitors, and her only difficulty lies in choosing. But come in;
+      don't lose heart. The woman is worth, a struggle.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      And pushing in Germain by the shoulders with boisterous gaiety, he called
+      to his daughter as they entered the house:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;So, Catherine, here is another!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      This cordial but unmannerly method of introduction to the widow, in the
+      presence of her other devotees, completed Germain's distress and
+      embarrassment. He felt the awkwardness of his position, and stood for a
+      few moments without daring to look upon the beauty and her court.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The Widow Guérin had a good figure and did not lack freshness, but her
+      expression and her dress displeased Germain the instant he saw her. She
+      had a bold, self-satisfied look, and her cap, edged with three lace
+      flounces, her silk apron, and her fichu of fine black lace were little in
+      accord with the staid and sober widow he had pictured to himself.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Her elaborate dress and forward manners inclined Germain to judge the
+      widow old and ugly, although she was certainly not either. He thought that
+      such finery and playful manners might well suit little Marie's years and
+      wit, but that the widow's fun was labored and over bold, and that she wore
+      her fine clothes in bad taste.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The three suitors were seated at a table loaded with wines and meats which
+      were spread out for their use throughout the Sunday morning; for Father
+      Leonard liked to show off his wealth, and the widow was not sorry to
+      display her pretty china and keep a table like a rich lady. Germain,
+      simple and unsuspecting as he was, watched everything with a penetrating
+      glance, and for the first time in his life he kept on the defensive when
+      he drank. Father Leonard obliged him to sit down with his rivals, and
+      taking a chair opposite he treated him with great politeness, and talked
+      to him rather than to the others.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The present of game, despite the breach Germain had made on his own
+      account, was still plenteous enough to produce its effect. The widow did
+      not look unaware of its presence, and the suitors cast disdainful glances
+      in its direction.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain felt ill at ease in this company, and did not eat heartily. Father
+      Leonard poked fun at him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You look very melancholy,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;and you are ill-using your glass.
+      You must not allow love to spoil your appetite, for a fasting lover can
+      make no such pretty speeches as he whose ideas are brightened with a drop
+      of wine.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain was mortified at being thought already in love, and the artificial
+      manner of the widow, who kept lowering her eyes with a smile as a woman
+      does who is sure of her calculations, made him long to protest against his
+      pretended surrender; but fearing to appear uncivil, he smiled and held his
+      peace.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He thought the widow's beaus, three bumpkins. They must have been rich for
+      her to admit of their pretensions. One was over forty, and fat as Father
+      Leonard; another had lost an eye, and drank like a sot. The third was a
+      young fellow, and nice-looking too; but he kept insisting on displaying
+      his wit, and would say things so silly that they were painful to hear. Yet
+      the widow laughed as though she admired all his foolishness, and made
+      small proof of her good taste thereby. At first Germain thought her
+      infatuated with him, but soon he perceived that he himself was especially
+      encouraged, and that they wished him to make fresh advances. For this
+      reason he felt an increasing stiffness and severity which he took no pains
+      to conceal.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The time came for mass, and they rose from table to go thither in company.
+      It was necessary to walk as far as Mers, a good half-league away, and
+      Germain was so tired that he longed to take a nap before they went; but he
+      was not in the habit of missing mass, and he started with the others.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The roads were filled with people, and the widow marched proudly along,
+      escorted by her three suitors, taking an arm, first of one and then of
+      another, and carrying her head high with an air of importance. She was
+      eager to display the fourth to the eyes of the passers-by; but Germain
+      felt so ridiculous to be dragged along in the train of a petticoat where
+      all the world might see, that he kept at a respectable distance, chatting
+      with Father Leonard, and succeeded in occupying his attention so well that
+      they did not look at all as if they belonged to the party.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0013" id="linklink2H_4_0013">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      XII &mdash; The Master
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      WHEN they reached the village, the widow halted to allow them to catch up.
+      She was bent upon making her entry with all her train; but Germain,
+      denying her this pleasure, deserted Father Leonard, and after conversing
+      with several acquaintances, he entered the church by another door. The
+      widow was vexed.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When mass was over, she made her appearance in triumph on the lawn, where
+      dancing was going on, and she began her dance with her three lovers in
+      turn. Germain watched her and saw that she danced well, but with
+      affectation.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;So, you don't ask my daughter?&rdquo; said Leonard, tapping him on the
+      shoulder. &ldquo;You are too easily frightened.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I have not danced since I lost my wife,&rdquo; answered the husbandman.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But now that you are looking for another, mourning 's over in heart as
+      well as in clothes.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That 's no reason, Father Leonard. Besides, I am too old and I don't care
+      for dancing.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Listen,&rdquo; said Father Leonard, drawing him toward a retired corner, &ldquo;when
+      you entered my house you were vexed to see the place already besieged, and
+      I see that you are very proud. But that is not reasonable, my boy. My
+      daughter is used to a great deal of attention, particularly since she left
+      off her mourning two years ago, and it is not her place to lead you on.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Has your daughter been thinking of marrying for two years already without
+      making her choice?&rdquo; asked Germain.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;She does n't wish to hurry, and she is right. Although she has lively
+      manners, and although you may not think that she reflects a great deal,
+      she is a woman of excellent common sense, and knows very well what she is
+      about.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It does not appear to me so,&rdquo; said Germain ingenuously, &ldquo;for she has
+      three suitors in her train, and if she knew her own mind, there are two of
+      them, at least, whom she would find superfluous and request to stay at
+      home.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why, Germain, you don't understand at all. She does n't wish the old man,
+      nor the blind man, nor the young man, I am quite certain; yet if she were
+      to turn them off, people would think that she wished to remain a widow,
+      and nobody else would come.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, I see. These three are used for a guide-post.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;As you like. What is the harm if they are satisfied?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Every man to his taste,&rdquo; said Germain.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I see that yours is different. Now supposing that you are chosen, then
+      they would leave the coast clear.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, supposing! and meanwhile how much time should I have to whistle?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That depends on your persuasive tongue, I suppose. Until now, my daughter
+      has always thought that she would pass the best part of her life while she
+      was being courted, and she is in no hurry to become the servant of one man
+      when she can order so many others about. So she will please herself as
+      long as the game amuses her; but if you please her more than the game, the
+      game will cease. Only you must not lose courage. Come back every Sunday,
+      dance with her, let her know that you are amongst her followers, and if
+      she finds you more agreeable and better bred than the others, some fine
+      day she will tell you so, no doubt.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Excuse me, Father Leonard. Your daughter has the right to do as she
+      pleases, and it is not my business to blame her. If I were in her place, I
+      should do differently. I should be more frank, and should not waste the
+      time of men who have, doubtless, something better to do than dancing
+      attendance on a woman who makes fun of them. Still, if that is what amuses
+      her and makes her happy, it is no affair of mine. Only there is one thing
+      I must tell you which is a little embarrassing, since you have mistaken my
+      intentions from the start, for you are so sure of what is not so, that you
+      have given me no chance to explain. You must know, then, that I did not
+      come here to ask for your daughter in marriage, but merely to buy a pair
+      of oxen which you are going to take to market next week, and which my
+      father-in-law thinks will suit him.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I understand, Germain,&rdquo; answered Leonard very calmly; &ldquo;you changed your
+      plans when you saw my daughter with her admirers. It is as you please. It
+      seems that what attracts some people repels others, and you are perfectly
+      welcome to withdraw, for you have not declared your intentions. If you
+      wish seriously to buy my cattle, come and see them in the pasture, and
+      whether we make a bargain or not, you will come back to dinner with us
+      before you return.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I don't wish to trouble you,&rdquo; answered Germain. &ldquo;Perhaps you have
+      something to do here. I myself am tired of watching the dancing and
+      standing idle. I will go to see your cattle, and I will soon join you at
+      your house.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Then Germain made his escape, and walked away toward the meadows where
+      Leonard had pointed out to him some of his cattle. It was true that Father
+      Maurice intended to buy, and Germain thought that if he were to bring home
+      a fine pair of oxen at a reasonable price, he might more easily receive a
+      pardon for wilfully relinquishing the purpose of his journey. He walked
+      rapidly, and soon found himself at some distance from Ormeaux. Then of a
+      sudden, he felt a desire to kiss his son and to see little Marie once
+      again, although he had lost all hope and even had chased away the thought
+      that he might some day owe his happiness to her. Everything that he had
+      heard and seen: this woman, flirtatious and vain; this father, at once
+      shrewd and short-sighted, encouraging his daughter in habits of pride and
+      untruth; this city luxury, which seemed to him a transgression against the
+      dignity of country manners; this time wasted in foolish, empty words; this
+      home so different from his own; and above all, that deep uneasiness which
+      comes to a laborer of the fields when he leaves his accustomed toil: all
+      the trouble and annoyance of the past few hours made Germain long to be
+      with his child and with his little neighbor. Even had he not been in love,
+      he would have sought her to divert his mind and raise his spirits to their
+      wonted level.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But he looked in vain over the neighboring meadows. He saw neither little
+      Marie nor little Pierre, and yet it was the hour when shepherds are in the
+      fields. There was a large flock in a pasture. He asked of a young boy who
+      tended them whether the sheep belonged to the farm of Ormeaux.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said the child.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Are you the shepherd? Do boys tend the flocks of the farm, amongst you?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, I am taking care of them to-day, because the shepherdess went away.
+      She was ill.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But have you not a new shepherdess, who came this morning?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, surely; but she, too, has gone already.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What! gone? Did she not have a child with her?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, a little boy who cried. They both went away after they had been here
+      two hours.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Went away! Where?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Where they came from, I suppose. I did n't ask them.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But why did they go away?&rdquo; asked Germain, growing more and more uneasy.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;How the deuce do I know?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Did they not agree about wages? Yet that must have been settled before.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I can tell you nothing about it I saw them come and go, nothing more.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain walked toward the farm and questioned the farmer. Nobody could
+      give him an explanation; but after speaking with the farmer, he felt sure
+      that the girl had gone without saying a word, and had taken the weeping
+      child with her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Can they have been ill-treating my son?&rdquo; cried Germain.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It was your son, then? How did he happen to be with the little girl?
+      Where do you come from, and what is your name?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain, seeing that after the fashion of the country they were answering
+      him with questions, stamped his foot impatiently, and asked to speak with
+      the master.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The master was away. Usually, he did not spend the whole day when he came
+      to the farm. He was on horseback, and he had ridden off to one of his
+      other farms.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But, honestly,&rdquo; said Germain, growing very anxious, &ldquo;can't you tell me
+      why this girl left?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The farmer and his wife exchanged an odd smile. Then the former answered
+      that he knew nothing, and that it was no business of his. All that Germain
+      could learn was that both girl and child had started off toward Fourche.
+      He rushed back to Fourche. The widow and her lovers were still away; so
+      was Father Leonard. The maid told him that a girl and a child had come to
+      ask for him, but that as she did not know them, she did not wish to let
+      them in, and had advised them to go to Mers.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And why did you refuse to let them in?&rdquo; said Germain, angrily. &ldquo;People
+      are very suspicious in this country, where nobody opens the door to a
+      neighbor.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But you see,&rdquo; answered the maid, &ldquo;in a house as rich as this, I must keep
+      my eyes open. When the master is away, I am responsible for everything,
+      and I cannot open the door to the first person that comes along.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is a bad custom,&rdquo; said Germain, &ldquo;and I had rather be poor than to live
+      in constant fear like that. Good-by to you, young woman, and good-by to
+      your vile country.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He made inquiries at the neighboring house. The shepherdess and child had
+      been seen. As the boy had left Belair suddenly, carelessly dressed, with
+      his blouse torn, and his little lambskin over his shoulders, and as little
+      Marie was necessarily poorly clad at all times, they had been taken for
+      beggars. People had offered them bread. The girl had accepted a crust for
+      the child, who was hungry, then she had walked away with him very quickly,
+      and had entered the forest.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain thought a minute, then he asked whether the farmer of Ormeaux had
+      not been at Fourche.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; they answered, &ldquo;he passed on horseback a few seconds after the
+      girl.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Was he chasing her?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, so you understand?&rdquo; answered the village publican, with a laugh.
+      &ldquo;Certain it is that he is the devil of a fellow for running after girls.
+      But I don't believe that he caught her; though, after all, if he had seen
+      her&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That is enough, thank you!&rdquo; And he flew rather than ran to Leonard's
+      stable. Throwing the saddle on the gray's back, he leaped upon it, and set
+      off at full gallop toward the wood of Chanteloube.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      His heart beat hard with fear and anger; the sweat poured down his
+      forehead; he spurred the mare till the blood came, though the gray needed
+      no pressing when she felt herself on the road to her stable.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0014" id="linklink2H_4_0014">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      XIII &mdash; The Old Woman
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      GERMAIN came soon to the spot where he had passed the night on the border
+      of the pool. The fire was smoking still. An old woman was gathering the
+      remnants of the wood little Marie had piled there. Germain stopped to
+      question her. She was deaf and mistook his inquiries.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, my son,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;this is the Devil's Pool. It is an evil spot,
+      and you must not approach it without throwing in three stones with your
+      left hand, while you cross yourself with the right. That drives away the
+      spirits. Otherwise trouble comes to those who go around it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am not asking about that,&rdquo; said Germain, moving nearer her, and
+      screaming at the top of his lungs. &ldquo;Have you seen a girl and a child
+      walking through the wood?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said the old woman, &ldquo;a little child was drowned there.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain shook from head to foot; but happily the hag added:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That happened a long time ago. In memory of the accident they raised a
+      handsome cross there. But one stormy night, the bad spirits threw it into
+      the water. You can still see one end of it. If anybody were unlucky enough
+      to pass the night here, he could never find his way out before daylight.
+      He must walk and walk, and though he went two hundred leagues into the
+      forest, he must always return to the same place.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The peasant's imagination was aroused in spite of himself, and the thought
+      of the evils that must come in order that the old woman's assertions might
+      be vindicated, took so firm a hold of his mind that he felt chilled
+      through and through. Hopeless of obtaining more news, he remounted, and
+      traversed the woods afresh, calling Pierre with all his might, whistling,
+      cracking his whip, and snapping the branches that the whole forest might
+      reëcho with the noise of his coming; then he listened for an answering
+      voice, but he heard no sound save the cowbells scattered through the
+      glades, and the wild cries of the swine as they fought over the acorns.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At length Germain heard behind him the noise of a horse following in his
+      traces, and a man of middle age, dark, sturdy, and dressed after the city
+      fashion, called to him to stop. Germain had never seen the farmer of
+      Ormeaux, but his instinctive rage told him at once that this was the man.
+      He turned, and eyeing him from head to foot, waited for him to speak.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Have not you seen a young girl of fifteen or sixteen go by with a small
+      boy?&rdquo; asked the farmer, with an assumed air of indifference, although he
+      was evidently ill at ease.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What do you want of her?&rdquo; answered Germain, taking no pains to conceal
+      his anger.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I might tell you that that is none of your business, my friend. But as I
+      have no reasons for secrecy, I shall tell you that she is a shepherdess
+      whom I engaged for a year, before I knew her. When I saw her, she looked
+      too young and frail to work on the farm. I thanked her, but I wished to
+      pay the expenses of her short journey, and while my back was turned, she
+      went off in a huff. She was in such a hurry that she forgot even some of
+      her belongings and her purse, which has certainly not much in it, probably
+      but a few pennies; but since I was going in this direction, I hoped to
+      meet her, and give her back the things which she left behind, as well as
+      what I owe her.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain had too honest a heart not to pause at hearing a story which,
+      however unlikely, was not impossible. He fastened his penetrating gaze on
+      the farmer, who submitted to the examination with a plentiful supply of
+      impudence or of good faith.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I wish to get at the bottom of this matter,&rdquo; said Germain; &ldquo;and,&rdquo;
+       continued he, suppressing his indignation, &ldquo;the girl lives in my village.
+      I know her. She can't be far away. Let 's ride on together; we shall find
+      her, no doubt.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are right,&rdquo; said the farmer; &ldquo;let's move on; but if we do not find
+      her before we reach the end of this road, I shall give up, for I must turn
+      off toward Ardentes.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, oh!&rdquo; thought the peasant, &ldquo;I shall not part with you, even if I have
+      to follow you around the 'Devil's Pool for twenty-four hours.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Stop,&rdquo; said Germain suddenly, fixing his eyes on a clump of broom which
+      waved in a peculiar manner. &ldquo;Halloa! halloa! Petit Pierre, is that you, my
+      child?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The boy recognized his father's voice, and came out from the broom leaping
+      like a young deer; but when he saw Germain in company with the farmer, he
+      stopped dismayed, and stood irresolute. &ldquo;Come, my Pierre, come. It is I,&rdquo;
+       cried the husbandman, as he leaped from his horse and ran toward his boy
+      to take him in his arms; &ldquo;and where is little Marie?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;She is hiding there, because she is afraid of that dreadful black man,
+      and so am I.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You need n't be afraid. I am here. Marie, Marie. It is I.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Marie crept toward them, but the moment she saw Germain with the farmer
+      close behind, she sprang forward, and throwing herself into his arms,
+      clung to him as a daughter to her father.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, my brave Germain!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;you will defend me. I am not afraid
+      when you are near.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain shuddered. He looked at Marie. She was pale; her clothes were torn
+      by the thorns which had scratched her as she passed, rushing toward the
+      brake like a stag chased by the hunters. But neither shame nor despair
+      were in her face.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Your master wishes to speak to you,&rdquo; said he, his eyes fixed on her
+      features.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;My master!&rdquo; she exclaimed fiercely; &ldquo;that man is no master of mine, and
+      he never shall be. You, Germain, you are my master. I want you to take me
+      home with you. I will be your servant for nothing.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The farmer advanced, feigning impatience. &ldquo;Little girl,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you
+      left something behind at the farm, which I am bringing back to you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, you are not, sir,&rdquo; answered little Marie. &ldquo;I did n't forget anything,
+      and I have nothing to ask of you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Listen a moment,&rdquo; returned the farmer. &ldquo;It 's I who have something to
+      tell you. Come with me. Don't be afraid. It's only a word or two.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You may say them aloud. I have no secrets with you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;At any rate, do take your money.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;My money? You owe me nothing, thank God!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I suspected as much,&rdquo; said Germain under his breath, &ldquo;but I don't care,
+      Marie. Listen to what he has to say to you, for&mdash;I am curious to
+      know. You can tell me afterward. Go up to his horse. I shall not lose
+      sight of you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Marie took three steps toward the farmer. He bent over the pommel of his
+      saddle, and lowering his voice he said:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Little girl, here is a bright golden louis for you. Don't say anything
+      about it; do you hear? I shall say that I found you too frail to work on
+      my farm. There will be no more talk about that. I shall be passing by your
+      house one of these days; and if you have not said anything, I will give
+      you something more; and then if you are more sensible, you have only to
+      speak. I will take you home with me, or I will come at dusk and talk with
+      you in the meadows. What present would you like me to bring you?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Here, sir, is the present I have for you,&rdquo; answered little Marie, aloud,
+      as she threw the golden louis in his face with all her might. &ldquo;I thank you
+      heartily, and I beg that if you come anywhere near our house, you will be
+      good enough to let me know. All the boys in the neighborhood will go out
+      to welcome you, because, where I live, we are very fond of gentlemen who
+      try to make love to poor girls. You shall see. They will be on the lookout
+      for you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You lie with your dirty tongue,&rdquo; cried the farmer, raising his stick with
+      a dangerous air. &ldquo;You wish to make people believe what is not so, but you
+      shall never get a penny out of me. We know what kind of a girl you are.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Marie drew back, frightened, and Germain sprang to the bridle of the
+      farmer's horse and shook it violently.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I understand now,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;it is easy to see what is going on. Get
+      down, my man, get down; I want to talk to you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The farmer was not eager to take up the quarrel. Anxious to escape, he set
+      spurs to his horse and tried to loosen the peasant's grasp by striking
+      down his hands with a cane; but Germain dodged the blow, and seizing hold
+      of his antagonist's leg, he unseated him and flung him to the earth. The
+      farmer regained his feet, but although he defended himself vigorously, he
+      was knocked down once more. Germain held him to the ground. Then he said:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Poor coward, I could thrash you if I wished. But I don't want to do you
+      an injury, and, besides, no amount of punishment would help your
+      conscience&mdash;but you shall not stir from this spot until you beg the
+      girl's pardon, on your knees.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The farmer understood this sort of thing, and wished to take it all as a
+      joke. He made believe that his offense was not serious, since it lay in
+      words alone, and protested that he was perfectly willing to ask her
+      pardon, provided he might kiss the girl afterward. Finally, he proposed
+      that they go and drink a pint of wine at the nearest tavern, and so part
+      good friends.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are disgusting!&rdquo; answered Germain, rubbing his victim's head in the
+      dirt, &ldquo;and I never wish to see your nasty face again. So blush, if you are
+      able, and when you come to our village, you had better slink along Sneak's
+      Alley.&rdquo; *
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He picked up the farmer's holly-stick, broke it over his knee to show the
+      strength of his wrists, and threw away the pieces with disgust Then giving
+      one hand to his son and the other to little Marie, he walked away, still
+      trembling with anger.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      * This is the road, which, diverging from the principal street at the
+      entrance of villages, makes a circuit about them.. Persons who are in
+      dread off receiving some well deserved insult, are supposed to take this
+      route to escape attention.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0015" id="linklink2H_4_0015">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      XIV &mdash; The Return to the Farm
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      AT the end of fifteen minutes they had left the heath behind them. They
+      trotted along the highroad, and the gray whinnied at each familiar object.
+      Petit-Pierre told his father as much as he could understand of what had
+      passed.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;When we reached the farm,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;that man came to speak to my Marie
+      in the fold where we had gone to see the pretty sheep. I had climbed into
+      the manger to play, and that man did not see me. Then he said good morning
+      to Marie, and he kissed her.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You allowed him to kiss you, Marie?&rdquo; said Germain, trembling with anger.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I thought it was a civility, a custom of the place to new-comers, just as
+      at your farm the grandmother kisses the young girls who enter her service
+      to show that she adopts them and will be a mother to them.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And next,&rdquo; went on little Pierre, who was proud to have an adventure to
+      tell of, &ldquo;<i>that man</i> told you something wicked, which you have told
+      me never to repeat and not even remember; so I forgot it right away.
+      Still, if father wishes, I will tell him what it was&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, Pierre, I don't wish to hear, and I don't wish you ever to think of
+      it again.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then I will forget it all over again,&rdquo; replied the child. &ldquo;Next, <i>that
+      man</i> seemed to be growing angry because Marie told him that she was
+      going away. He told her he would give her whatever she wanted,&mdash;a
+      hundred francs! And my Marie grew angry too. Then he came toward her as if
+      he wished to hurt her. I was afraid, and I ran to Marie and cried. Then <i>that
+      man</i> said: 'What 's that? Where did that child come from? Put it out,'
+      and he raised his cane to beat me. But my Marie prevented him, and she
+      spoke to him this way: 'We will talk later, sir; now I must take this
+      child back to Fourche, and then I shall return.' And as soon as he had
+      left the fold, my Marie spoke to me this way: 'We must run, my Pierre; we
+      must get away as quickly as we can, for this is a wicked man and he is
+      trying to do us harm.' Then when we had gone back of the farm-houses, we
+      crossed a little meadow, and we went to Fourche to find you. But you were
+      not there, and they would n't let us wait. And then <i>that man</i>,
+      riding his black horse, came behind us, and we ran on as fast as we could
+      and hid in the woods. And then he followed us, and when we heard him
+      coming, we hid again. And then, when he had passed, we began to run toward
+      home, and then you came and found us, and that is how it all happened. I
+      have n't forgotten anything, have I, my Marie?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, my Pierre, that is the whole truth. Now, Germain, you must be my
+      witness, and tell everybody in the village that if I did not stay there it
+      was not from want of courage and industry.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And, Marie, I want to ask of you whether a man of twenty-eight is too old
+      when there is a woman to be defended and an insult to be revenged. I
+      should like to know whether Bastien or any other pretty boy, ten years
+      better off than I, would not have been knocked to pieces by <i>that man</i>,
+      as Petit-Pierre says. What do you think?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I think, Germain, that you have done me a great service, and that I shall
+      be grateful all my life.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Is that all?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Little father,&rdquo; said the child, &ldquo;I forgot to ask little Marie what I
+      promised. I have not had time yet, but I will speak to her at home, and I
+      will speak to my grandmother too.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The child's promise set Germain to thinking He must explain his conduct to
+      his family and give his objections to the widow Guam, and all the while
+      conceal the true reasons which had made him so judicious and so decided.
+      When a man is proud and happy, it seems an easy task to thrust his
+      happiness upon others, but to be repulsed on one side and blamed on the
+      other is not a very pleasant position.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Fortunately, Petit-Pierre was fast asleep when they reached the farm, and
+      Germain put him to bed undisturbed. Then he began upon all sorts of
+      explanations, Father Maurice, seated on a three-legged stool before the
+      door, listened with gravity; and, although he was ill-content with the
+      result of the journey, when Germain told him about the widow's systematic
+      coquetry, and demanded of his father-in-law whether he had the time to go
+      and pay his court fifty-two Sundays in the year at the risk of being
+      dismissed in the end, the old man nodded his head in assent and answered:
+      &ldquo;You were not wrong, Germain; that could never be.&rdquo; And then, when Germain
+      described how he had been obliged to bring back little Marie, with the
+      utmost haste, in order to protect her from the insults or perhaps from the
+      violence of a wicked master, Father Maurice nodded approvingly again and
+      said: &ldquo;You were not wrong, Germain; that was right.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      When Germain had told his story, and had set forth all his reasons, the
+      old farmer and his wife heaved deep, simultaneous sighs of resignation,
+      and looked at each other. Then the head of the house rose and said: &ldquo;God's
+      will be done. Love can't be made to order.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Come to supper, Germain,&rdquo; said his mother-in-law. &ldquo;It is unfortunate that
+      this did not come to a better end, but, after all, it seems that God did
+      not wish it. We must look elsewhere.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; added the old man, &ldquo;as my wife says, we must look elsewhere.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      There was no more noise at the house, and on the morrow, when Petit-Pierre
+      rose with the larks at dawn, he was no longer excited by the extraordinary
+      events of the preceding days. Like other little peasants of his age, he
+      became indifferent, forgot everything that had been running in his head,
+      and thought only of playing with his brothers, and of pretending to drive
+      the horses and oxen like a man. Germain plunged into his work, and tried
+      to forget, too; but he became so absent-minded and so sad that everybody
+      noticed it. He never spoke to little Marie, he never even looked at her,
+      and yet had anybody asked him in what meadow she was, or by what road she
+      had passed, there was not a moment in the day when he could not have
+      answered if he would. He dared not ask his family to take her in at the
+      farm during the winter, and yet he knew well how she must suffer from
+      want. But she did not suffer; and Mother Guillette could not understand
+      how her little store of wood never grew less, and how her shed was full in
+      the morning, although she had left it almost empty at night It was the
+      same with the wheat and potatoes. Somebody entered by the garret window,
+      and emptied a sack on the floor without awaking a soul or leaving a trace
+      of his coming. The widow was at once uneasy and delighted. She made her
+      daughter promise to tell nobody, and said that were people to know of the
+      miracle performed at her house they would take her for a witch. She felt
+      confident that the devil had a share in it, but she was in no hurry to
+      pick a quarrel with him by calling down the priest's exorcisms on the
+      house. It would be time enough, she said, when Satan should come to demand
+      her soul in return for his gifts.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Little Marie understood the truth better, but she dared not speak to
+      Germain, for fear of seeing him return to his dreams of marriage, and,
+      before him, she pretended to perceive nothing.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0016" id="linklink2H_4_0016">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      XV &mdash; Mother Maurice
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      ONE day, Mother Maurice was alone in the orchard with Germain, and spoke
+      to him kindly:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;My poor son, I believe you are not well. You don't eat as well as usual;
+      you never laugh; you talk less and less. Perhaps one of us, or all of us,
+      have hurt your feelings, without knowing and without wishing it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, my mother,&rdquo; answered Germain, &ldquo;you have always been as kind to me as
+      the mother who brought me into the world, and I should be very ungrateful
+      if I were to complain of you or your husband, or of anybody in the
+      household.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then, my child, it is the sorrow for your wife's death which comes back
+      to you. Instead of growing lighter with time, your grief becomes worse,
+      and as your father has said very wisely, it is absolutely necessary for
+      you to marry again.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, my mother, that is my opinion, but the women whom you advised me to
+      ask don't suit me. Whenever I see them, instead of forgetting my
+      Catherine, I think of her all the more.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Apparently that 's because we have n't been able to understand your
+      taste. You must help us by telling us the truth. There must be a woman
+      somewhere who is made for you, for God does n't make anybody without
+      placing his happiness in somebody else. So if you know where to find this
+      woman whom you need, take her, and be she pretty or ugly, young or old,
+      rich or poor, we have made up our minds, my husband and I, to give our
+      consent, for we are tired of seeing you so sad, and we can never be happy
+      while you are sorrowful.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;My mother, you are as kind as the kind Lord, and so is my father,&rdquo;
+       answered Germain; &ldquo;but your compassion brings small help to my troubles,
+      for the girl I love does n't care for me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;She is too young, then? It's foolish for you to love a young girl.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, mother dear, I have been foolish enough to love a young girl, and it
+      's my fault. I do my best to stop thinking of it, but, working or
+      sleeping, at mass or in bed, with my children or with you, I can think of
+      nothing else.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then it 's like a fate cast over you, Germain. There 's but one remedy,
+      and it is that this girl must change her mind and listen to you. It's my
+      duty to look into this, and see whether it 's practicable. Tell me where
+      she lives, and what 's her name.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, my dear mother, I dare not,&rdquo; said Germain, &ldquo;because you will make fun
+      of me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I shall not make fun of you, Germain, because you are in trouble, and I
+      don't wish to make it harder for you. Is it Fanchette?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, mother, of course not.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Or Rosette?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Tell me, then, for I shall never finish if I must name every girl in the
+      country-side.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain bowed his head, and could not bring himself to answer.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Very good,&rdquo; said Mother Maurice, &ldquo;I shall let you alone for to-day;
+      to-morrow, perhaps, you will be more confidential with me, or possibly
+      your sister-in-law will question you more cleverly.&rdquo; And she picked up her
+      basket to go and spread her linen on the bushes.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain acted like children who make up their minds when they see that
+      they are no longer attracting attention. He followed his mother, and at
+      length, trembling, he named Marie of Guillette.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Great was the surprise of Mother Maurice. Marie was the last person she
+      would have dreamed of. But she had the delicacy not to cry out, and made
+      her comments to herself. Then seeing that her silence hurt Germain, she
+      stretched out her basket toward him and said:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Is there any reason for not helping me at my work. Carry this load, and
+      come and talk with me. Have you reflected well, Germain? Are you fully
+      decided?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Alas, dear mother, you must n't speak in that way. I should be decided if
+      I had a chance of success, but as I could never be heard, I have only made
+      up my mind to cure myself, if I can.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And if you can't.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;There is an end to everything, Mother Maurice: when the horse is laden
+      too heavily, he falls, and when the cow has nothing to eat, she dies.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Do you mean to say that you will die, if you do not succeed. God grant
+      not, Germain. I don't like to hear a man like you talk of those things;
+      for what he says, he thinks. You are very brave, and weakness is dangerous
+      for strong men. Take heart; I can't conceive that a poverty-stricken girl,
+      whom you have honored so much as to ask her to marry you, will refuse
+      you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yet it 's the truth: she does refuse me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And what reasons does she give you?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That you have always been kind to her, and that her family owes a great
+      deal to yours, and that she does n't wish to displease you by turning me
+      away from a rich marriage.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;If she says that, she proves her good sense, and shows what an honest
+      girl she is. But, Germain, she does n't cure you; for of course she tells
+      you that she loves you and would marry you if we were willing?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That's the worst part of all. She says that her heart can never be mine.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;If she says what she does n't think in order to keep you at a safer
+      distance, the child deserves our love, and we should pass over her youth
+      on account of her great good sense.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Germain, struck by a hope he had never held before; &ldquo;that
+      would be very wise and right of her! But if she is so sensible, I am sure
+      it is because I displease her.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Germain,&rdquo; said Mother Maurice, &ldquo;you must promise me not to worry for a
+      whole week. Keep from tormenting yourself, eat, sleep, and be as gay as
+      you used to be. For my part, I 'll speak to my husband, and if I gain his
+      consent, you shall know the girl's real feelings toward you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain promised, and the week passed without a single word in private
+      from Father Maurice, who seemed to suspect nothing. The husbandman did his
+      best to look calm, but he grew ever paler and more troubled.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0017" id="linklink2H_4_0017">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      XVI &mdash; Little Marie
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      AT length, on Sunday morning, when mass was over, his mother-in-law asked
+      Germain what encouragement he had had from his sweetheart since the
+      conversation in the orchard.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why, none at all,&rdquo; answered he; &ldquo;I have n't spoken to her.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;How can you expect to win her if you don't speak to her?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I have spoken to her but once,&rdquo; replied Germain. &ldquo;That was when we were
+      together at Fourche, and since then I have n't said a single word. Her
+      refusal gave me so much pain that I had rather not hear her begin again to
+      tell me that she does n't love me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But, my son, you must speak to her now; your father gives his approval.
+      So make up your mind. I tell you to do it, and, if need be, I shall order
+      you to do it, for you can't rest in this uncertainty.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain obeyed. He reached Mother Guillette's house, hanging his head with
+      a hopeless air. Little Marie sat alone before the hearth so thoughtful
+      that she did not hear Germain's step. When she saw him before her, she
+      started from her chair in surprise and grew very red.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Little Marie,&rdquo; said he, sitting down near her, &ldquo;I come to trouble you and
+      to give you pain. I know it very well, but the man and his wife at home
+      [it was thus after the peasant fashion that he designated the heads of the
+      house] wish me to speak to you, and beg you to marry me. You don't care
+      for me. I am prepared for it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Germain,&rdquo; answered little Marie, &ldquo;are you sure that you love me?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It pains you, I know, but it is n't my fault. If you could change your
+      mind, I should be so very happy, and certain it is that I don't deserve
+      it. Look at me, Marie; am I very terrible?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, Germain,&rdquo; she answered, with a smile, &ldquo;you are better looking than
+      I.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Don't make fun of me; look at me charitably; as yet, I have never lost a
+      single hair nor a single tooth. My eyes tell you plainly how much I love
+      you. Look straight into my eyes. It is written there, and every girl knows
+      how to read that writing.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Marie looked into Germain's eyes with playful boldness; then of a sudden
+      she turned away her head and trembled.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Good God,&rdquo; exclaimed Germain, &ldquo;I make you afraid; you look at me as
+      though I were the farmer of Ormeaux. Don't be afraid of me, please don't;
+      that hurts me too much. I shall not say any bad words to you, I shall not
+      kiss you if you will not have me, and when you wish me to go away, you
+      have only to show me the door. Must I go in order to stop your trembling?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Marie held out her hand toward the husbandman, but without turning her
+      head, which was bent on the fireplace, and without saying a word.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I understand,&rdquo; said Germain. &ldquo;You pity me, for you are kind; you are
+      sorry to make me unhappy; but you cant love me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why do you say these things to me, Germain?&rdquo; answered little Marie, after
+      a pause. &ldquo;Do you wish to make me cry?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Poor little girl, you have a kind heart, I know; but you don't love me,
+      and you are hiding your face for fear of letting me see your dislike and
+      your repugnance. And I? I dare not even clasp your hand! In the forest,
+      when my boy was asleep and you were sleeping too, I almost kissed you very
+      gently. But I would have died of shame rather than ask it of you, and that
+      night I suffered as a man burning over a slow fire. Since that time I have
+      dreamed of you every night. Ah! how I have kissed you, Marie! Yet during
+      all that time you have slept without a dream. And now, do you know what I
+      think? I think that were you to turn and look at me with the eyes I have
+      for you, and were you to move your face close to mine, I believe I should
+      fall dead for joy. And you, you think that if such a thing were to happen,
+      you would die of anger and shame!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain spoke as in a dream, not hearing the words he said. Little Marie
+      was trembling all the time, but he was shaking yet more and did not notice
+      it. Of a sudden, she turned. Her eyes were filled with tears, and she
+      looked at him reproachfully. The poor husbandman thought that this was the
+      last blow, and without waiting for his sentence, he rose to go, but the
+      girl stopped him, and throwing both her arms about him, she hid her face
+      in his breast.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, Germain,&rdquo; she sobbed, &ldquo;did n't you feel that I loved you?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Then Germain had gone mad, if his son, who came galloping into the cottage
+      on a stick, with his little sister on the crupper, scourging the imaginary
+      steed with a willow branch, had not brought him to his senses. He lifted
+      the boy and placed him in the girl's arms.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;See,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;by loving me, you have made more than one person happy.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_APPE" id="linklink2H_APPE">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      APPENDIX
+    </h2>
+    <h3>
+      I &mdash; A Country Wedding
+    </h3>
+    <p>
+      HERE ends the history of Germain's marriage as he told it to me himself,
+      good husbandman that he is. I ask your forgiveness, kind reader, that I
+      know not how to translate it better; for it is a real translation that is
+      needed by this old-fashioned and artless language of the peasants of the
+      country &ldquo;that I sing,&rdquo; as they used to say. These people speak French that
+      is too true for us, and since Rabelais and Montaigne, the advance of the
+      language has lost for us many of its old riches. Thus it is with every
+      advance, and we must make the best of it. Yet it is a pleasure still to
+      hear those picturesque idioms used in the old districts in the center of
+      France; all the more because it is the genuine expression of the laughing,
+      quiet, and delightfully talkative character of the people who make use of
+      it. Touraine has preserved a certain precious number of patriarchal
+      phrases. But Touraine was civilized greatly during the Renaissance, and
+      since its decline she is filled with fine houses and highroads, with
+      foreigners and traffic. Berry remained as she was, and I think that after
+      Brittany and a few provinces in the far south of France, it is the best
+      preserved district to be found at the present day. Some of the costumes
+      are so strange and so curious that I hope to amuse you a few minutes more,
+      kind reader, if you will allow me to describe to you in detail a country
+      wedding&mdash;Germain's, for example&mdash;at which I had the pleasure of
+      assisting several years ago.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      For, alas! everything passes. During my life alone, more change has taken
+      place in the ideas and in the customs of my village than had been seen in
+      the centuries before the Revolution. Already half the ceremonies, Celtic,
+      Pagan, or of the Middle Ages, that in my childhood I have seen in their
+      full vigor, have disappeared. In a year or two more, perhaps, the
+      railroads will lay their level tracks across our deep valleys, and will
+      carry away, with the swiftness of lightning, all our old traditions and
+      our wonderful legends.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was in winter about the carnival season, the time of year when, in our
+      country, it is fitting and proper to have weddings. In summer the time can
+      hardly be spared, and the work of the farm cannot suffer three days'
+      delay, not to speak of the additional days impaired to a greater or to a
+      less degree by the moral and physical drunkenness which follows a
+      gala-day. I was seated beneath the great mantelpiece of the old-fashioned
+      kitchen fireplace when shots of pistols, barking of dogs, and the piercing
+      notes of the bagpipe told me that the bridal pair were approaching. Very
+      soon Father and Mother Maurice, Germain, and little Marie, followed by
+      Jacques and his wife, the closer relatives, and the godfathers and
+      godmothers of the bride and groom, all made their entry into the yard.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Little Marie had not yet received her wedding-gifts,&mdash;favors, as they
+      call them,&mdash;and was dressed in the best of her simple clothes, a
+      dress of dark, heavy cloth, a white fichu with great spots of brilliant
+      color, an apron of carnation,&mdash;an Indian red much in vogue at the
+      time, but despised nowadays,&mdash;a cap of very white muslin after that
+      pattern, happily still preserved, which calls to mind the head-dress of
+      Anne Boleyn and of Agnes Sorrel. She was fresh and laughing, but not at
+      all vain, though she had good reason to be so. Beside her was Germain,
+      serious and tender, like young Jacob greeting Rebecca at the wells of
+      Laban. Another girl would have assumed an important air and struck an
+      attitude of triumph, for in every rank it is something to be married for a
+      fair face alone. Yet the girl's eyes were moist and shone with tenderness.
+      It was plain that she was deep in love and had no time to think of the
+      opinions of others. Her little air of determination was not absent, but
+      everything about her denoted frankness and good-will. There was nothing
+      impertinent in her success, nothing selfish in her sense of power. Never
+      have I seen so lovely a bride, when she answered with frankness her young
+      friends who asked if she were happy:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Surely I have nothing to complain of the good Lord.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Father Maurice was spokesman. He came forward to pay his compliments, and
+      give the customary invitations. First he fastened to the mantelpiece a
+      branch of laurel decked out with ribbons; this is known as the <i>writ</i>&mdash;that
+      is to say, the letter of announcement. Next he gave to every guest a tiny
+      cross made of a bit of blue ribbon sewn to a transverse bit of pink ribbon&mdash;pink
+      for the bride, blue for the groom. The guests of both sexes were expected
+      to keep this badge to adorn their caps or their button-holes on the
+      wedding-day. This is the letter of invitation, the admission ticket.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then Father Maurice paid his congratulations. He invited the head of the
+      house and all his <i>company</i>,&mdash;that is to say, all his children,
+      all his friends, and all his servants,&mdash;to the benediction, <i>to the
+      feast, to the sports, to the dance, and to everything that follows</i>. He
+      did not fail to say, &ldquo;I have come <i>to do you the honor of inviting you</i>&rdquo;;
+      a very right manner of speech, even though it appears to us to convey the
+      wrong meaning, for it expresses the idea of doing honor to those who seem
+      worthy of it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Despite the generosity of the invitation carried from house to house
+      throughout the parish, politeness, which is very cautious amongst
+      peasants, demands that only two persons from each family take advantage of
+      it&mdash;one of the heads of the house, and one from the number of their
+      children.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After the invitations were made, the betrothed couple and their families
+      took dinner together at the farm.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Little Marie kept her three sheep on the common, and Germain tilled the
+      soil as though nothing had happened.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      About two in the afternoon before the day set for the wedding, the music
+      came. The music means the players of the bagpipe and hurdy-gurdy, their
+      instruments decorated with long streaming ribbons, playing an appropriate
+      march to a measure which would have been rather slow for feet foreign to
+      the soil, but admirably adapted to the heavy ground and hilly roads of the
+      country.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Pistol-shots, fired by the young people and the children, announced the
+      beginning of the wedding ceremonies. Little by little the guests
+      assembled, and danced on the grass-plot before the house in order to enter
+      into the spirit of the occasion. When evening was come they began strange
+      preparations; they divided into two bands, and when night had settled down
+      they proceeded to the ceremony of the <i>favors</i>.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      All this passed at the dwelling of the bride, Mother Guillette's cottage.
+      Mother Guillette took with her her daughter, a dozen pretty shepherdesses,
+      friends and relatives of her daughter, two or three respectable
+      housewives, talkative neighbors, quick of wit and strict guardians of
+      ancient customs. Next she chose a dozen stout fellows, her relatives and
+      friends; and last of all the parish hemp-dresser, a garrulous old man, and
+      as good a talker as ever there was.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The part which, in Brittany, is played by the bazvalon, the village
+      tailor, is taken in our part of the country by the hemp-dresser and the
+      wool-carder, two professions which are unusually combined in one. He is
+      present at all ceremonies, sad or gay, for he is very learned and a fluent
+      talker, and on these occasions he must always figure as spokesman, in
+      order to fulfil with exactitude certain formalities used from time
+      immemorial. Traveling occupations, which bring a man into the midst of
+      other families, without allowing him to shut himself up within his own,
+      are well fitted to make him talker, wit, storyteller, and singer.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The hemp-dresser is peculiarly skeptical. He and another village
+      functionary, of whom we have spoken before, the grave-digger, are always
+      the daring spirits of the neighborhood. They have talked so much about
+      ghosts, and they know so well all the tricks of which these malicious
+      spirits are capable, that they fear them scarcely at all. It is especially
+      at night that all of them&mdash;grave-diggers, hemp-dressers, and ghosts&mdash;do
+      their work. It is also at night when the hemp-dresser tells his melancholy
+      stories. Permit me to make a digression.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When the hemp has reached the right stage, that is to say, when it has
+      been steeped sufficiently in running water, and half dried on the bank, it
+      is brought into the yard and arranged in little upright sheaves, which,
+      with their stalks divided at the base, and their heads bound in balls,
+      bear in the dusk some small resemblance to a long procession of little
+      white phantoms, standing on their slender legs, and moving noiselessly
+      along the wall.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It is at the end of September, when the nights are still warm, that they
+      begin to beat it by the pale light of the moon. By day the hemp has been
+      heated in the oven; at night they take it out to beat it while it is still
+      hot. For this they use a kind of horse surmounted by a wooden lever which
+      falls into grooves and breaks the plant without cutting it. It is then
+      that you hear in the night that sudden, sharp noise of three blows in
+      quick succession. Then there is silence; it is the movement of the arm
+      drawing out the handful of hemp to break it in a fresh spot. The three
+      blows begin again; the other arm works the lever, and thus it goes on
+      until the moon is hidden by the early streaks of dawn. As the work
+      continues but a few days in the year, the dogs are not accustomed to it,
+      and yelp their plaintive howls toward every point of the horizon.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It is the time of unwonted and mysterious sounds in the country. The
+      migrating cranes fly so high that by day they are scarcely visible. By
+      night they are only heard, and their hoarse wailing voices, lost in the
+      clouds, sound like the parting cry of souls in torment, striving to find
+      the road to heaven, yet forced by an unconquerable fate to wander near the
+      earth about the haunts of men; for these errant birds have strange
+      uncertainties, and many a mysterious anxiety in the course of their airy
+      flight. Sometimes they lose the wind when the capricious gusts battle, or
+      come and go in the upper regions. When this confusion comes by day, you
+      can see the leader of the file fluttering aimlessly in the air, then turn
+      about and take his place at the tail of the triangular phalanx, while a
+      skilful manoeuver of his companions forms them soon in good order behind
+      him. Often, after vain efforts, the exhausted leader relinquishes the
+      guidance of the caravan; another comes forward, tries in his turn, and
+      yields his place to a third, who finds the breeze, and continues the march
+      in triumph. But what cries, what reproaches, what protests, what wild
+      curses or anxious questionings are exchanged in an unknown tongue amongst
+      these winged pilgrims!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Sometimes, in the resonant night, you can hear these sinister noises
+      whirling for a long time above the housetops, and as you can see nothing,
+      you feel, despite your efforts, a kind of dread and kindred discomfort,
+      until the sobbing multitude is lost in boundless space.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There are other noises too which belong to this time of year, and which
+      sound usually in the orchards. Gathering the fruit is not yet over, and
+      the thousand unaccustomed cracklings make the tree seem alive. A branch
+      groans as it bends beneath a burden which has reached, of a sudden, the
+      last stage of growth; or perhaps an apple breaks from the twig, and falls
+      on the damp earth at your feet with a dull sound. Then you hear rush by,
+      brushing the branches and the grass, a creature you cannot see; it is the
+      peasant's dog, that prowling and uneasy rover, at once impudent and
+      cowardly, always wandering, never sleeping, ever seeking you know not
+      what, spying upon you, hiding in the brush, and taking flight at the sound
+      of a falling apple, which he thinks a stone that you are throwing at him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It is during those nights, nights misty and gray, that the hemp-dresser
+      tells his weird stories of will-o'-the-wisps and milk-white hares, of
+      souls in torment and wizards changed to wolves, of witches' vigils at the
+      cross-roads, and screech-owls, prophetesses of the graveyard. I remember
+      passing the early hours of such a night while the hemp-dressing was going
+      on, and the pitiless strokes, interrupting the dresser's story at its most
+      awful place, sent icy shivers through our veins. And often too the good
+      man continued his story as he worked, and four or five words were lost,
+      terrible words, no doubt, which we dared not make him repeat, and whose
+      omission added a mystery yet more fearful to the dark mysteries of the
+      story which had gone before. It was in vain the servants warned us that it
+      was too late to stay without doors, and that bedtime had sounded for us
+      long since; they too were dying to hear more; and then with what terror we
+      crossed the hamlet on our way home! How deep did the church porch appear
+      to us, and how thick and black the shadows of the old trees! The graveyard
+      we dared not see; we shut our eyes tight as we passed it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But no more than the sacristan is the hemp-dresser gifted solely with the
+      desire of frightening; he loves to make people laugh; he is sarcastic and
+      sentimental at need, when love and marriage are to be sung. It is he who
+      collects and keeps stored in his memory the oldest songs, and who
+      transmits them to posterity. And so it is he who acts at weddings the part
+      we shall see him play at the presentation of little Marie's favors.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0019" id="linklink2H_4_0019">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      II &mdash; The Wedding Favors
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      WHEN all the guests were met together in the house, the doors and windows
+      were closed with the utmost care; even the garret window was barricaded;
+      boards and benches, logs and tables were placed behind every entrance,
+      just as if the inhabitants were making ready to sustain a siege; and
+      within these fortifications solemn stillness prevailed until at a distance
+      were heard songs and laughter and the sounds of rustic music. It was the
+      band of the bridegroom, Germain at the head, followed by his most trusty
+      companions and by the grave-digger, relatives, friends, and servants, who
+      formed a compact and merry train. Meanwhile, as they came nearer the house
+      they slackened their pace, held a council of war, and became silent. The
+      girls, shut up in the house, had arranged little loop-holes at the windows
+      by which they could see the enemy approach and deploy in battle array. A
+      fine, cold rain was falling, which added zest to the situation, while a
+      great tire blazed on the hearth within. Marie wished to cut short the
+      inevitable slowness of this well-ordered siege; she had no desire to see
+      her lover catch cold, but not being in authority she had to take an
+      ostensible share in the mischievous cruelty of her companions.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When the two armies met, a discharge of firearms on the part of the
+      besiegers set all the dogs in the neighborhood to barking. Those within
+      the house dashed at the door with loud yelps, thinking that the attack was
+      in earnest, and the children, little reassured by the efforts of their
+      mothers, began to weep and to tremble. The whole scene was played so well
+      that a stranger would have been deceived, and would have made his
+      preparations to tight a band of brigands. Then the grave-digger, bard and
+      orator of the groom, took his stand before the door, and with a rueful
+      voice, exchanged the following dialogue with the hemp-dresser, who was
+      stationed above the same door:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;Ah, my good people, my fellow-townsmen, for the
+      love of Heaven, open the door.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;Who are you, and what right have you to call us
+      your dear fellow-townsmen? We don't know you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;We are worthy folk in great distress. Don't be
+      afraid of us, my friends. Extend us your hospitality. Sleet is falling;
+      our poor feet are frozen, and our journey home has been so long that our
+      sabots are split.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;If your sabots are split, you can look on the
+      ground; you will find very soon a sprig of willow to make some <i>arcelets</i>
+      [small curved blades of iron which are fastened on split sabots to hold
+      them together].&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;Willow <i>arcelets</i> are scarcely strong
+      enough. You are making fun of us, good people, and you would do better to
+      open your doors. We can see a splendid fire blazing in your dwelling. The
+      spit must be turning, and we can make merry with you, heart and belly. So
+      open your doors to poor pilgrims who will die on the threshold if you are
+      not merciful.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;Ah ha! so you are pilgrims? You never told us
+      that. And what pilgrimage do you come from, may I ask?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;We shall tell you that when you open the door,
+      for we come from so far that you would never believe it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;Open the door to you? I rather think not. We
+      can't trust you. Tell us, is it from Saint Sylvain of Pouligny that you
+      come?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;We have been at Saint Sylvain of Pouligny, but
+      we have been farther still.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;Then you have been as far as Saint Solange?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;At Saint Solange we have been, sure enough, but
+      we have been farther yet.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;You are lying. You have never been as far as
+      Saint Solange.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;We have been farther, for now we are come from
+      Saint Jacques of Compostelle.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;What absurdity are you telling us? We don't know
+      that parish. We can easily see that you are bad people, brigands,
+      nobodies, and liars. Go away with your nonsense. We are on our guard. You
+      can't come in.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;Ah, my poor fellow, take pity on us. We are not
+      pilgrims, as you have guessed, but we are unlucky poachers pursued by the
+      keepers. Even the police are after us, and if you don't hide us in your
+      hay-loft, we shall be taken and led off to prison.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;And who will prove you are what you say you are,
+      this time? For you have told us one lie already that you can't maintain.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;If you will let us in, we shall show you a
+      pretty piece of game we have killed.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;Show it right away, for we have our suspicions.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;All right, open the door or a window to let us
+      pass the creature in.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;Oh, no, not quite so foolish. I am looking at
+      you through a little chink, and I can see neither hunters nor game amongst
+      you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Here an ox-driver, a thick-set fellow of herculean strength, detached
+      himself from a group where he had stood unperceived, and raised toward the
+      window a plucked goose, spitted on a strong iron bar decorated with tufts
+      of straw and ribbons.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Ho, ho!&rdquo; cried the hemp-dresser, after cautiously extending an arm to
+      feel the roast. &ldquo;That is n't a quail nor a partridge; it is n't a hare nor
+      a rabbit; it 's something like a goose or a turkey. Upon my word, you 're
+      clever hunters, and that game did n't make you run very far. Move on, you
+      rogues; we know all your lies, and you had best go home and cook your
+      supper. You are not going to eat ours.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;O Heavens, where can we go to cook our game? It
+      is very little for so many as we, and, besides, we have neither place nor
+      fire. At this time every door is closed, and every soul asleep. You are
+      the only people who are celebrating a wedding at home, and you must he
+      hardhearted indeed to let us freeze outside. Once again, good people, open
+      the door; we shall not cost you anything. You can see that we bring our
+      own meat; only a little room at your hearth, a little blaze to cook with,
+      and we shall go on our way rejoicing.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;Do you suppose that we have too much room here,
+      and that wood is bought tor nothing?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;We have here a small bundle of hay to make the
+      fire. We shall be satisfied with that; only grant us leave to place the
+      spit across your fireplace.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;That will never do. We are disgusted, and don't
+      pity you at all. It is my opinion that you are drunk, that you need
+      nothing, and that you only wish to come in and steal away our fire and our
+      daughters.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;Since you won't listen to reason, we shall make
+      our way in by force.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;Try, if you want; we are shut in well enough to
+      have no fear of you, and since you are impudent fellows, we shall not
+      answer you again.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Thereupon the hemp-dresser shut the garret window with a bang, and came
+      down into the room below by a step-ladder. Then he took the bride by the
+      hand, the young people of both sexes followed, and they all began to sing
+      and chatter merrily, while the matrons sang in piercing voices, and
+      shrieked with laughter in derision and bravado at those without who were
+      attempting an attack.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The besiegers, on their side, made a great hubbub. They discharged their
+      pistols at the doors, made the dogs growl, whacked the walls, shook the
+      blinds, and uttered frightful shrieks. In short, there was such a
+      pandemonium that nobody could hear, and such a cloud of dust that nobody
+      could see.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And yet this attack was all a sham. The time had not come for breaking
+      through the etiquette. If, in prowling about, anybody were to find an
+      unguarded aperture, or any opening whatsoever, he might try to slip in
+      unobserved, and then, if the carrier of the spit succeeded in placing his
+      roast before the fire, and thus prove the capture of the hearth, the
+      comedy was over and the bridegroom had conquered.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The entrances of the house, however, were not numerous enough for any to
+      be neglected in the customary precautions, and nobody might use violence
+      before the moment fixed for the struggle.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When they were weary of dancing and screams, the hemp-dresser began to
+      think of capitulation. He went up to his window, opened it with
+      precaution, and greeted the baffled assailants with a burst of laughter.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well, my boys,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you look very sheep-faced. You thought there
+      was nothing easier than to come in, and you see that our defense is good.
+      But we are beginning to have pity on you, if you will submit and accept
+      our conditions.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;Speak, good people. Tell us what we must do to
+      approach your hearth.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;You must sing, my friends; but sing a song we
+      don't know,&mdash;one that we can't answer by a better.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That 's not hard to do,&rdquo; answered the grave-digger, and he thundered in a
+      powerful voice: &ldquo;'Six months ago, 'twas in the spring...'&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;'I wandered through the sprouting grass,'&rdquo; answered the hemp-dresser in a
+      slightly hoarse but terrible voice. &ldquo;You must be jesting, my poor friends,
+      singing us such time-worn songs. You see very well that we can stop you at
+      the first word.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     &ldquo;'She was a prince's daughter...'&rdquo;
+ </pre>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;'Right gladly would she wed,'&rdquo; answered the hemp-dresser. &ldquo;Come, move on
+      to the next; we know that a little too well.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;How do you like this one?&mdash;
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     &ldquo;'As I was journeying home from Nantes.'&rdquo;
+ </pre>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>:
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     &ldquo;'Weary, oh, weary, was I, was I.'&rdquo;
+ </pre>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That dates from my grandmother's time. Let's have another.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+ <i>The Grave-digger</i>:
+
+     &ldquo;'One day I went a-walking...'&rdquo;
+ </pre>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>:
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     &ldquo;'Along a lovely wood!'&rdquo;
+ </pre>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That one is too stupid! Our little children would n't take the trouble to
+      answer you. What! Are these all you know?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;Oh, we shall sing you so many that you will
+      never be able to hear them all.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      In this way a full hour passed. As the two antagonists were champions of
+      the country round in the matter of songs, and as their store seemed
+      inexhaustible, the contest might last all night with ease, all the more
+      because the hemp-dresser, with a touch of malice, allowed several ballads
+      of ten, twenty, or thirty couplets to be sung through, feigning by his
+      silence to admit his defeat. Then the bridegroom's camp rejoiced and sang
+      aloud in chorus, and thought that this time the foe was worsted; but at
+      the first line of the last couplet, they heard the hoarse croaking of the
+      old hemp-dresser bellow forth the second rhyme. Then he cried:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You need not tire yourselves by singing such a long one, my children&mdash;we
+      know that one to our finger-tips.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Once or twice, however, the hemp-dresser made a wry face, contracted his
+      brow, and turned toward the expectant housewives with a baffled air. The
+      grave-digger was singing something so old that his adversary had forgotten
+      it, or perhaps had never even heard it; but instantly the good gossips
+      chanted the victorious refrain through their noses with voices shrill as a
+      sea-mew's, and the grave-digger, forced to surrender, went on to fresh
+      attempts.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It would have taken too long to wait for a decision of the victory. The
+      bride's party declared itself disposed to be merciful, provided that the
+      bride were given a present worthy of her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then began the song of the favors to a tune solemn as a church chant.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The men without sang together in bass voices:
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     &ldquo;'Open the door, true love,
+     Open the door; I have presents for you, love,
+     Oh, say not adieu, love.'&rdquo;
+ </pre>
+    <p>
+      To this the women answered from within in falsetto, with mournful voices:
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     &ldquo;'My father is sorry, my mother is sad,
+     And I am a maiden too kind by far
+     At such an hour my gate to unbar.'&rdquo;
+ </pre>
+    <p>
+      The men took up the first verse as far as the fourth line and modified it
+      thus:
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     &ldquo;'And a handkerchief new, love.'&rdquo;
+ </pre>
+    <p>
+      But, on behalf of the bride, the women answered in the same way as at
+      first.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      For twenty couplets, at least, the men enumerated all the
+      wedding-presents, always mentioning something new in the last line: a
+      handsome apron, pretty ribbons, a cloth dress, laces, a golden cross, and
+      even a hundred pins to complete the modest list of wedding-presents. The
+      refusal of the women could not be shaken, but at length the men decided to
+      speak of
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     &ldquo;A good husband, too, love.&rdquo;
+ </pre>
+    <p>
+      And the women answered, turning toward the bride and singing in unison
+      with the men:
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     &ldquo;'Open the door, true love,
+     Open the door;
+     Here's a sweetheart for you, love,
+     Pray let us enter, too, love.'&rdquo;
+ </pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0020" id="linklink2H_4_0020">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      III &mdash; The Wedding
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      IMMEDIATELY the hemp-dresser drew back the wooden bolt which barred the
+      door within. At this time it was still the only fastening known in most of
+      the dwellings of our hamlet. The groom's band burst into the bride's
+      house, but not without a struggle; for the young men quartered within, and
+      even the old hemp-dresser and the gossips, made it their duty to defend
+      the hearth. The spit-bearer, upheld by his supporters, had to plant the
+      roast before the fireplace. It was a regular battle, although people
+      abstained from striking, and there was no anger shown in this struggle.
+      But everybody was pushing and shoving so hard, and there was so much
+      playful pride in this display of muscular strength, that the results might
+      well have been serious, although they did not appear so across the laughs
+      and songs. The poor old hemp-dresser, fighting like a lion, was pinned to
+      the wall and squeezed by the crowd until his breath almost left him. More
+      than one champion was upset and trodden under foot involuntarily; more
+      than one hand, jammed against the spit, was covered with blood. These
+      games are dangerous, and latterly the accidents have been so severe that
+      our peasants have determined to allow the ceremony of the favors to fall
+      into disuse; I believe we saw the last at the marriage of François
+      Meillant, although there was no real struggle on that occasion.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The battle was earnest enough, however, at Germain's wedding. It was a
+      point of honor on one side to invade, on the other to defend, Mother
+      Guillette's hearth. The great spit was twisted like a screw beneath the
+      strong fists which fought for it A pistol-shot set fire to a small
+      quantity of hemp arranged in sheaves and laid on a wicker shelf near the
+      ceiling. This incident created a diversion, and while some of the company
+      crowded about to extinguish the sparks, the grave-digger, who had climbed
+      unbeknown into the garret, came down the chimney and seized the spit, at
+      the very moment when the ox-driver, who was defending it near the hearth,
+      raised it above his head to prevent it from being torn away. Some time
+      before the attack, the women had taken the precaution to put out the fire
+      lest in the struggle somebody should fall in and get burned. The jocular
+      grave-digger, in league with the ox-driver, grasped the trophy and tossed
+      it easily across the andirons. It was done! Nobody might interfere. The
+      grave-digger sprang to the middle of the room and lighted a few wisps of
+      straw, which he placed about the spit under pretense of cooking the roast,
+      for the goose was in pieces and the floor was strewn with its scattered
+      fragments.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then there was a great deal of laughter and much boastful dispute.
+      Everybody showed the marks of the blows he had received, and as it was
+      often a friend's hand that had struck them, there was no word of complaint
+      nor of quarreling. The hemp-dresser, half flattened out, kept rubbing the
+      small of his back and saying that, although it made small difference to
+      him, he protested against the ruse of his friend, the grave-digger, and
+      that if he had not been half dead, the hearth had never been captured so
+      easily. The women swept the floor and order was restored. The table was
+      covered with jugs of new wine. When the contestants had drunk together and
+      taken breath, the bridegroom was led to the middle of the chamber, and,
+      armed with a wand, he was obliged to submit to a fresh trial.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      During the struggle, the bride and three of her companions had been hidden
+      by her mother, godmother, and aunts, who had made the four girls sit down
+      in a remote corner of the room while they covered them with a large white
+      cloth. Three friends of Marie's height, with caps of a uniform size, were
+      chosen, so that when they were enveloped from head to toe by the cloth it
+      was impossible to tell them apart.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The bridegroom might not touch them, except with the tip of his staff, and
+      then merely to designate which he thought to be his wife. They allowed him
+      time enough to make an examination with no other help than his eyes
+      afforded, and the women, placed on either side, kept zealous watch lest
+      cheating should occur. Should he guess wrong, he might not dance, with his
+      bride, but only with her he had chosen by mistake.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When Germain stood in front of these ghosts wrapped in the same shroud, he
+      feared he should make a wrong choice; and, in truth, that had happened to
+      many another, so carefully and conscientiously were the precautions made.
+      His heart beat loud. Little Marie did her best to breathe hard and shake
+      the cloth a little, but her malicious companions followed her example, and
+      kept poking the cloth with their fingers, so that there were as many
+      mysterious signals as there were girls beneath the canopy. The square
+      head-dresses upheld the cloth so evenly that it was impossible to discern
+      the contour of a brow outlined by its folds.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After ten minutes' hesitation, Germain shut his eyes, commended his soul
+      to God, and stretched out the wand at random. It touched the forehead of
+      little Marie, who cast the cloth from her, and shouted with triumph. Then
+      it was his right to kiss her, and lifting her in his strong arms, he bore
+      her to the middle of the room, where together they opened the dance, which
+      lasted until two in the morning. The company separated to meet again at
+      eight. As many people had come from the country round, and as there were
+      not beds enough for everybody, each of the village maidens took to her bed
+      two or three other girls, while the men spread themselves pell-mell on the
+      hay in the barn-loft. You can imagine well that they had little sleep, for
+      they did nothing but wrestle and joke, and tell foolish stories. Properly,
+      there were three sleepless nights at weddings, and these we cannot regret.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At the time appointed for departure, when they had partaken of milk-soup,
+      seasoned with a strong dose of pepper to stimulate the appetite,&mdash;for
+      the wedding-feast gave promise of great bounty,&mdash;the guests assembled
+      in the farm-yard. Since our parish had been abolished, we had to go half a
+      league from home to receive the marriage blessing. It was cool and
+      pleasant weather, but the roads were in such wretched condition that
+      everybody was on horseback, and each man took a companion on his crupper,
+      whether she were young or old. Germain started on the gray, and the mare,
+      well-groomed, freshly shod, and decked out with ribbons, pranced about and
+      snorted fire from her nostrils. The husbandman went to the cottage for his
+      bride in company with his brother-in-law, Jacques, who rode the old gray,
+      and carried Mother Guillette on the crupper, while Germain returned to the
+      farm-yard in triumph, holding his dear little wife before him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then the merry cavalcade set out, escorted by the children, who ran ahead
+      and fired off their pistols to make the horses jump. Mother Maurice was
+      seated in a small cart, with Germain's three children and the fiddlers.
+      They led the march to the sound of their instruments. Petit-Pierre was so
+      handsome that his old grandmother was pride itself. But the eager child
+      did not stay long at her side. During a moment's halt made on the journey,
+      before passing through a difficult piece of road, he slipped away and ran
+      to beg his father to carry him in front on the gray.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, no,&rdquo; replied Germain, &ldquo;that will call forth some disagreeable joke;
+      we must n't do it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It's little that I care what the people of Saint Chartier say,&rdquo; said
+      little Marie. &ldquo;Take him up, Germain, please do; I shall be prouder of him
+      than I am of my wedding-gown.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain yielded, and the pretty trio darted into the crowd borne by the
+      triumphant gallop of the gray.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And so it was; the people of Saint Chartier, although they were very
+      sarcastic, and somewhat disdainful of the neighboring parishes which had
+      been annexed to theirs, never thought of laughing when they saw such a
+      handsome husband, such a lovely wife, and a child that a king's wife might
+      court. Petit-Pierre was all dressed in light blue cloth, with a smart red
+      waistcoat so short that it descended scarcely below his chin. The village
+      tailor had fitted his armholes so tight that he could not bring his two
+      little hands together. But, oh, how proud he was! He wore a round hat,
+      with a black-and-gold cord, and a peacock's plume which stuck out proudly
+      from a tuft of guinea feathers. A bunch of flowers, bigger than his head,
+      covered his shoulder, and ribbons fluttered to his feet The hemp-dresser,
+      who was also the barber and hair-dresser of the district, had cut his hair
+      evenly, by covering his head with a bowl, and clipping off the protruding
+      locks, an infallible method for guiding the shears. Thus arrayed, the poor
+      child was less poetic, certainly, than with his curls streaming in the
+      wind, and his Saint John Baptist's sheepskin about him; but he knew
+      nothing of this, and everybody admired him and said that he had quite the
+      air of a little man. His beauty triumphed over everything, for what is
+      there over which the exceeding beauty of childhood could not triumph?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      His little sister, Solange, had, for the first time in her life, a
+      peasant's cap in place of the calico hood which little girls wear until
+      they are two or three years old. And what a cap it was! Longer and larger
+      than the poor little thing's whole body. How beautiful she thought it! She
+      dared not even turn her head; so she kept quite still and thought the
+      people would take her for the bride.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As for little Sylvain, he was still in long clothes, and, fast asleep on
+      his grandmother's knees, he did not even know what a wedding was.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain looked at his children tenderly, and when they reached the town
+      hall, he said to his bride:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Marie, I have come here with a happier heart than I had the day when I
+      brought you home from the forest of Chanteloube, thinking that you could
+      never love me. I took you in my arms to put you on the ground as I do
+      here; but I thought that never again should we be mounted on the good gray
+      with the child on our knees. I love you so dearly, I love these little
+      creatures so dearly, I am so happy that you love me and that you love
+      them, and that my family love you, and I love your mother so well and all
+      my friends so well, and everybody else so well today, that I wish I had
+      three or four hearts to fill all of them; for surely one is too small to
+      hold so much love and so much happiness. It almost makes my stomach ache.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      There was a crowd at the door of the town hall and another at the church
+      to see the pretty bride. Why should we not tell about her dress? it became
+      her so well. Her muslin cap, without spot and covered with embroidery, had
+      lappets trimmed with lace. At that time peasant women never allowed a
+      single lock to be seen, and, although they conceal beneath their caps
+      splendid coils of hair tied up with tape to hold the coif in place, even
+      to-day it would be thought a scandal and a shame for them to show
+      themselves bareheaded to men. Nowadays, however, they allow a slender
+      braid to appear over their foreheads, and this improves their appearance
+      very much. Yet I regret the classic head-dress of my time; its spotless
+      laces next the bare skin gave an effect of pristine purity which seemed to
+      me very solemn; and when a face looked beautiful thus it was with a beauty
+      of which nothing can express the charm and unaffected majesty.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Little Marie wore her cap thus, and her forehead was so white and so pure
+      that it defied the whiteness of linen to cast it in the shade. Although
+      she had not closed an eye the night before, the morning air and, yet more,
+      the joy within of a soul pure as the heaven, and, more than all, a small
+      secret flame guarded with the modesty of girlhood, caused a bloom to mount
+      to her cheeks delicate as the peach-blossom in the first beams of an April
+      sun.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Her white scarf, modestly crossed over her breast, left visible only the
+      soft curves of a neck rounded like a turtle-dove's; her home-made cloth
+      gown of myrtle-green outlined her pretty figure, which looked already
+      perfect, yet which must still grow and develop, for she was but seventeen.
+      She wore an apron of violet silk with the bib our peasant women were so
+      foolish as to suppress, which added so much elegance and decency to the
+      breast. Nowadays they display their scarfs more proudly, but there is no
+      longer in their dress that delicate flower of the purity of long ago,
+      which made them look like Holbein's virgins. They are more forward and
+      more profuse in their courtesies. The good old custom used to be a kind of
+      staid reserve which made their rare smile deeper and more ideal.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      During the offertory, after the fashion of the day, Germain placed the
+      &ldquo;thirteen&rdquo;&mdash;that is to say, thirteen pieces of silver&mdash;in his
+      bride's hand. He slipped over her finger a silver ring of a form unchanged
+      for centuries, but which is replaced for henceforth by the golden
+      wedding-ring. As they walked out of church, Marie said in a low voice:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Is this really the ring I wanted? Is it the one I asked you for,
+      Germain?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; answered he, &ldquo;my Catherine wore it on her finger when she died.
+      There is but one ring for both my weddings.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Thank you, Germain,&rdquo; said the young woman, in a serious and impressive
+      tone. &ldquo;I shall die with it on, and if I go before you, you must keep it
+      for the marriage of your little Solange.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0021" id="linklink2H_4_0021">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      IV &mdash; The Cabbage
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      THEY mounted and returned very quickly to Belair. The feast was bountiful,
+      and, mingled with songs and dances, it lasted until midnight. For fourteen
+      hours the old people did not leave the table. The grave-digger did the
+      cooking, and did it very well. He was celebrated for this, and he would
+      leave his fire to come in and dance and sing before and after every
+      course. And yet this poor Father Bontemps was epileptic. Who would have
+      thought it? He was fresh and strong, and merry as a young man. One day we
+      found him in a ditch, struck down by his malady at nightfall. We carried
+      him home with us, in a wheelbarrow, and we spent all night in caring for
+      him. Three days afterward, he was at a wedding, singing like a thrush,
+      jumping like a kid, and bustling about after his old fashion. When he left
+      a marriage, he would go to dig a grave, and nail up a coffin. Then he
+      would become very grave, and though nothing of this appeared in his gay
+      humor, it left a melancholy impression which hastened the return of his
+      attacks. His wife was paralyzed, and had not stirred from her chair for
+      twenty years. His mother is living yet, at a hundred and forty, but he,
+      poor man, so happy and good and amusing, was killed last year by falling
+      from his loft to the sidewalk. Doubtless he died a victim to a fatal
+      attack of his disease, and, as was his habit, had hidden in the hay, so as
+      not to frighten and distress his family. In this tragic manner he ended a
+      life strange as his disposition&mdash;a medley of things sad and mad,
+      awful and gay; and, in the midst of all, his heart was ever good and his
+      nature kind.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Now we come to the third day of the wedding, the most curious of all,
+      which is kept to-day in all its vigor. We shall not speak of the roast
+      which they carry to the bridal bed; it is a very silly custom, and hurts
+      the self-respect of the bride, while it tends to ruin the modesty of the
+      attendant girls. Besides, I believe that it is practised in all the
+      provinces, and does not belong peculiarly to our own.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Just as the ceremony of the wedding favors is a symbol that the heart and
+      home of the bride are won, that of the cabbage is a symbol of the
+      fruit-fulness of marriage. When breakfast is over on the day after the
+      wedding, this fantastic representation begins. Originally of Gallic
+      derivation, it has passed through primitive Christianity, and little by
+      little it has become a kind of mystery, or droll morality-play of the
+      Middle Ages.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Two boys, the merriest and most intelligent of the company, disappear from
+      breakfast, and after costuming themselves, return escorted by dogs,
+      children, and pistol-shots. They represent a pair of beggars&mdash;husband
+      and wife&mdash;dressed in rags. The husband is the filthier of the two; it
+      is vice which has brought him so low; the wife is unhappy and degraded
+      only through the misdeeds of her husband.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      They are called the gardener and the gardener's wife, and they pretend it
+      is their duty to guard and care for the sacred cabbage. The husband has
+      several names, each with a meaning. Sometimes they call him the
+      &ldquo;scarecrow,&rdquo; because his head is covered with straw or hemp, and because
+      his legs and a portion of his body are surrounded with straw to hide his
+      nakedness, ill concealed by his rags. He has also a great belly, or hump,
+      constructed of straw or hay underneath his blouse. Then he is known as the
+      &ldquo;ragamuffin,&rdquo; on account of his covering of rags. Lastly he is termed the
+      &ldquo;infidel,&rdquo; and this is most significant of all, because by his cynicism
+      and his debauchery he is supposed to typify the opposite of every
+      Christian virtue.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He comes with his face all smeared with soot and the lees of wine, and
+      sometimes made yet more hideous by a grotesque mask. An earthenware cup,
+      notched and broken, or an old sabot attached to his girdle by a cord,
+      shows that he has come to beg for alms of wine. Nobody refuses him, and he
+      pretends to drink; then he pours the wine on the ground by way of
+      libation. At every step he falls, rolls in the mud, and feigns to be a
+      prey to the most shameful drunkenness. His poor wife runs after him, picks
+      him up, calls for help, arranges his hempen locks, which straggle forth in
+      unkempt wisps from beneath his filthy hat, sheds tears over her husband's
+      degradation, and pours forth pathetic reproaches.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Wretched man,&rdquo; she cries, &ldquo;see the misery to which your wickedness has
+      brought us. I have to spend all my time sewing and working for you,
+      mending your clothes. You tear and bedraggle yourself incessantly. You
+      have eaten up all my little property; our six children lie on straw, and
+      we are living in a stable with the beasts. Here we are forced to beg for
+      alms, and, besides, you are so ugly and vile and despicable that very soon
+      they will be tossing us bread as if we were dogs. Ah, my poor people, take
+      pity on us! Take pity on me! I have n't deserved my lot, and never had
+      woman a more dirty and detestable husband. Help me to pick him up, else
+      the wagons will run over him as they run over broken bottles, and I shall
+      be a widow, and that will end by killing me with grief, though all the
+      world says it would be an excellent riddance for me.&rdquo; Such is the part of
+      the gardener's wife, and her continued lamentations last during the entire
+      play. For it is a genuine spontaneous comedy acted on the spur of the
+      moment in the open air, along the roads and across the fields, aided by
+      every chance occurrence that presents itself. Everybody shares in the
+      acting, people within the wedding-party and people without, wayfarers and
+      dwellers in houses, for three or four hours of the day, as we shall see.
+      The theme is always the same, but the variations are infinite; and it is
+      here that we can see the instinct of mimicry, the abundance of droll
+      ideas, the fluency, the wit at repartee, and even the natural eloquence of
+      our peasants.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The rôle of gardener's wife is intrusted commonly to a slender man,
+      beardless and fresh of face, who can give a great appearance of truth to
+      his personification and plays the burlesque despair naturally enough to
+      make people sad and glad at once, as they are in real life. These thin,
+      beardless men are not rare among us, and, strangely enough, they are
+      sometimes most remarkable for their muscular strength.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When the wife's misfortunes have been explained, the young men of the
+      company try to persuade her to leave her drunken husband and to amuse
+      herself with them. They offer her their arms and drag her away. Little by
+      little she gives way; her spirits rise, and she begins to run about, first
+      with one and then with another, and grows more scandalous in her behavior:
+      a fresh &ldquo;morality&rdquo;; the ill-conduct of the husband excites and aggravates
+      the evil in the wife.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then the &ldquo;infidel&rdquo; wakes from his drunkenness. He looks about for his
+      companion, arms himself with a rope and a stick and rushes after her. They
+      make him run, they hide, they pass the wife from one to another, they try
+      to divert her attention and to deceive her jealous spouse. His friends try
+      to get him drunk. At length he catches his unfaithful wife, and wishes to
+      beat her. What is truest and most carefully portrayed in this play is that
+      the jealous husband never attacks the men who carry off his wife. He is
+      very polite and prudent with them, and wishes only to take vengeance on
+      the sinning woman, because she is supposed to be too feeble to offer
+      resistance.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At the moment, however, when he raises his stick and prepares his cord to
+      strike the delinquent, all the men in the party interpose and throw
+      themselves between husband and wife.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Don't strike her! Never strike your wife,&rdquo; is the formula repeated to
+      satiety during these scenes. They disarm the husband, and force him to
+      pardon and to kiss his wife, and soon he pretends to love her better than
+      ever. He walks along, his arm linked in hers, singing and dancing until,
+      in a new access of drunkenness, he rolls upon the ground, and then begin
+      all over again the lamentations of the wife, her discouragements, her
+      pretended unfaithfulness, her husband's jealousy, the interference of the
+      neighbors, and the reconciliation. In all this there is a simple and even
+      coarse lesson, which, though it savors strongly of its Middle-Age origin,
+      does not fail to fix its impression if not on the married folk, who are
+      too loving or too sensible to have need of it, at least upon the children
+      and the young people. The &ldquo;infidel,&rdquo; racing after young girls and
+      pretending to wish to kiss them, frightens and disgusts them to such a
+      degree that they fly in unaffected terror. His dirty face and his great
+      stick, harmless as it is, make the children shriek aloud. It is the comedy
+      of customs in their most elementary but their most striking state.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When this farce is well under way, people make ready to hunt for the
+      cabbage. They bring a stretcher and place upon it the &ldquo;infidel,&rdquo; armed
+      with a spade, a cord, and a large basket. Four powerful men raise him on
+      their shoulders. His wife follows on foot, and after her come the &ldquo;elders&rdquo;
+       in a body with serious and thoughtful looks; then the wedding-march begins
+      by couples to a step tuned to music. Pistol-shots begin anew, and dogs
+      bark louder than ever at the sight of the filthy &ldquo;infidel&rdquo; borne aloft in
+      triumph. The children swing incense in derision with sabots fastened at
+      the end of a cord.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But why this ovation to an object so repulsive? They are marching to the
+      capture of the sacred cabbage, emblem of the fruitfulness of marriage, and
+      it is this drunkard alone who can bear the symbolic plant in his hand.
+      Doubtless, there is in it a pre-Christian mystery which recalls the
+      Saturnalian feasts or some rout of the Bacchanals. Perhaps this &ldquo;infidel,&rdquo;
+       who is, at the same time, preeminently a gardener, is none other than
+      Priapus himself, god of gardens and of drunkenness, a divinity who must
+      have been pure and serious in his origin as is the mystery of birth, but
+      who has been degraded bit by bit through license of manners and
+      distraction of thought.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      However this may be, the triumphal procession arrives at the bride's
+      house, and enters the garden. Then they select the choicest cabbage, and
+      this is not done very quickly, for the old people keep consulting and
+      disputing interminably, each one pleading for the cabbage he thinks most
+      suitable. They put it to vote, and when the choice is made the gardener
+      fastens his cord to the stalk, and moves away as far as the size of the
+      garden permits. The gardener's wife takes care that the sacred vegetable
+      shall not be hurt in its fall. The wits of the wedding, the hemp-dresser,
+      the grave-digger, the carpenter, and the sabot-maker, form a ring about
+      the cabbage, for men who do not till the soil, but pass their lives in
+      other people's houses, are thought to be, and are really, wittier and more
+      talkative than simple farmhands. One digs, with a spade, a ditch deep
+      enough to uproot an oak. Another places on his nose a pair of wooden or
+      cardboard spectacles. He fulfils the duties of &ldquo;engineer,&rdquo; walks up and
+      down, constructs a plan, stares at the workmen through his glasses, plays
+      the pedant, cries out that everything will be spoiled, has the work
+      stopped and begun afresh as his fancy directs, and makes the whole
+      performance as long and ridiculous as he can. This is an addition to the
+      formula of an ancient ceremony held in mockery of theorists in general,
+      for peasants despise them royally, or from hatred of the surveyors who
+      decide boundaries and regulate taxes, or of the workmen employed on
+      bridges and causeways, who transform commons into highways, and suppress
+      old abuses which the peasants love. Be this as it may, this character in
+      the comedy is called the &ldquo;geometrician,&rdquo; and does his best to make himself
+      unbearable to those who are toiling with pickaxe and shovel.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After a quarter of an hour spent in mummery, and difficulties raised in
+      order to avoid cutting the roots, and to transplant the cabbage without
+      injury, while shovelfuls of dirt are tossed into the faces of the
+      onlookers,&mdash;so much the worse for him who does not retreat in time,
+      for were he bishop or prince he must receive the baptism of earth,&mdash;the
+      &ldquo;infidel&rdquo; pulls the rope, the &ldquo;infidel's wife&rdquo; holds her apron, and the
+      cabbage falls majestically amidst the applause of the spectators. Then a
+      basket is brought, and the &ldquo;infidel&rdquo; pair plant the cabbage therein with
+      every care and precaution. They surround it with fresh earth, and support
+      it with sticks and strings, such as city florists use for their splendid
+      potted camellias; they fix red apples to the points of the sticks, and
+      twist sprigs of thyme, sage, and laurel all about them; they bedeck the
+      whole with ribbons and streamers; they place the trophy upon the stretcher
+      with the &ldquo;infidel,&rdquo; whose duty it is to maintain its equilibrium and
+      preserve it from harm; and, at length, they move away from the garden in
+      good order and in marching step.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But when they are about to pass the gate, and again when they enter the
+      yard of the bridegroom's house, an imaginary obstacle blocks the way. The
+      bearers of the burden stagger, utter loud cries, retreat, advance once
+      more, and, as though crushed by a resistless force, they pretend to sink
+      beneath its weight. While this is going on, the bystanders shout loudly,
+      exciting and steadying this human team.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Slowly, slowly, my child. There, there, courage! Look out! Be patient!
+      Lower your head; the door is too low! Close up; it's too narrow! A little
+      more to the left; now to the right; on with you; don't be afraid; you 're
+      almost there.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Thus it is that in years of plentiful harvest, the ox-cart, loaded to
+      overflowing with hay or corn, is too broad or too high to enter the barn
+      door. Thus it is that the driver shouts at the strong beasts, to restrain
+      them or to urge them on; thus it is that with skill and mighty efforts
+      they force this mountain of riches beneath the rustic arch of triumph. It
+      is, above all, the last load, called &ldquo;the cart of sheaves,&rdquo; which requires
+      these precautions, for this is a rural festival, and the last sheaf lifted
+      from the last furrow is placed on the top of the cart-load ornamented with
+      ribbons and flowers, while the foreheads of the oxen and the whip of the
+      driver are decorated also. The triumphant and toilsome entry of the
+      cabbage into the house is a symbol of the prosperity and fruitfulness it
+      represents.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Safe within the bridegroom's yard, the cabbage is taken from its stretcher
+      and borne to the topmost peak of the house or barn. Whether it be a
+      chimney, a gable, or a dove-cote that crowns the roof, the burden must, at
+      any risk, be carried to the very highest point of the building. The
+      &ldquo;infidel&rdquo; accompanies it as far as this, sets it down securely, and waters
+      it with a great pitcher of wine, while a salvo of pistol-shots and
+      demonstrations of joy from the &ldquo;infidel's wife&rdquo; proclaim its inauguration.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Without delay, the same ceremony is repeated all over again. Another
+      cabbage is dug from the garden of the husband and is carried with the same
+      formalities and laid upon the roof which his wife has deserted to follow
+      him. These trophies remain in their places until the wind and the rain
+      destroy the baskets and carry away the cabbage. Yet their lives are long
+      enough to give some chance of fulfilment to the prophecies which the old
+      men and women make with bows and courtesies.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Beautiful cabbage,&rdquo; they say, &ldquo;live and flourish that our young bride may
+      have a fine baby before a year is over; for if you die too quickly it is a
+      sign of barrenness, and you will stick up there like an ill omen.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The day is already far gone when all these things are accomplished. All
+      that remains undone is to take home the godfathers and godmothers of the
+      newly married couple. When the so-called parents dwell at a distance, they
+      are accompanied by the music and the whole wedding procession as far as
+      the limits of the parish; there they dance anew on the highroad, and
+      everybody kisses them good-by. The &ldquo;infidel&rdquo; and his wife are then washed
+      and dressed decently, if the fatigue of their parts has not already driven
+      them away to take a nap.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Everybody was still dancing and singing and eating in the Town Hall of
+      Belair at midnight on this third day of the wedding when Germain was
+      married. The old men at table could not stir, and for good reason. They
+      recovered neither their legs nor their wits until dawn on the morrow.
+      While they were regaining their dwellings, silently and with uncertain
+      steps, Germain, proud and active, went out to hitch his oxen, leaving his
+      young wife to slumber until daylight. The lark, caroling as it mounted to
+      the skies, seemed to him the voice of his heart returning thanks to
+      Providence. The hoar-frost, sparkling on the leafless bushes, seemed to
+      him the whiteness of April flowers that comes before the budding leaves.
+      Everything in nature was laughing and happy for him. Little Pierre had
+      laughed and jumped so much the evening before that he did not come to help
+      lead his oxen; but Germain was glad to be alone. He fell on his knees in
+      the furrow he was about to plow afresh, and said his morning prayer with
+      such a burst of feeling that two tears rolled down his cheeks, still moist
+      with sweat.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Afar off he heard the songs of the boys from neighboring villages, who
+      were starting on their return home, singing again in their hoarse voices
+      the happy tunes of the night before.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      THE END. <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+
+
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+</pre>
+  </body>
+</html>
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+    <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" />
+    <title>
+      The Devil's Pool, by George Sand
+    </title>
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+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Devil's Pool, by George Sand
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Devil's Pool
+
+Author: George Sand
+
+Illustrator: E. Abot
+
+Translator: Jane Minot Sedgwick And Ellery Sedgwick
+
+Release Date: July 4, 2007 [EBook #21993]
+Last Updated: March 16, 2018
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEVIL'S POOL ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <h1>
+      THE DEVIL'S POOL
+    </h1>
+    <h2>
+      By George Sand
+    </h2>
+    <h3>
+      Translated From The French By Jane Minot Sedgwick And Ellery Sedgwick
+      <br /> <br /> With An Etching By E. Abot <br /> <br /> <br /> 1901
+    </h3>
+    <p>
+      <br />
+    </p>
+    <div class="fig" style="width:80%">
+      <img alt="frontispiece (66K)" src="images/frontispiece.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <div class="fig" style="width:80%">
+      <img alt="titlepage (27K)" src="images/titlepage.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <blockquote>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        <br />
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0001"> <b>THE DEVIL'S POOL</b> </a>
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        <br />
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0002"> I &mdash; The Tillage of the Soil </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0003"> II &mdash; Father Maurice </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0004"> III &mdash; Germain, the Skilled
+        Husbandman </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0005"> IV &mdash; Mother Guillette </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0006"> V &mdash; Petit-Pierre </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0007"> VI &mdash; On the Heath </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0008"> VII &mdash; Underneath the Big Oaks </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0009"> VIII &mdash; The Evening Prayer </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0010"> IX &mdash; Despite the Cold </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0011"> X &mdash; Beneath the Stars </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0012"> XI &mdash; The Belle of the Village </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0013"> XII &mdash; The Master </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0014"> XIII &mdash; The Old Woman </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0015"> XIV &mdash; The Return to the Farm </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0016"> XV &mdash; Mother Maurice </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0017"> XVI &mdash; Little Marie </a>
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        <br />
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_APPE"> <b>APPENDIX</b> </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0019"> II &mdash; The Wedding Favors </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0020"> III &mdash; The Wedding </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linklink2H_4_0021"> IV &mdash; The Cabbage </a>
+      </p>
+    </blockquote>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0001" id="linklink2H_4_0001">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h1>
+      THE DEVIL'S POOL
+    </h1>
+    <p>
+      <br />
+    </p>
+    <div class="fig" style="width:80%">
+      <img alt="page7 (97K)" src="images/page7.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <br /> THE AUTHOR TO THE READER
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     <i>A la sueur de ton visaige,
+        Tu gagnerais ta pauvre vie.
+     Après long travail et usaige,
+        Voicy la mort qui te convie.</i> *
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      THIS quaint old French verse, written under one of Holbein's pictures, is
+      profoundly melancholy. The engraving represents a laborer driving his plow
+      through the middle of a field. Beyond him stretches a vast horizon, dotted
+      with wretched huts; the sun is sinking behind the hill. It is the end of a
+      hard day's work. The peasant is old, bent, and clothed in rags. He is
+      urging onward a team of four thin and exhausted horses; the plowshare
+      sinks into a stony and ungrateful soil. One being only is active and alert
+      in this scene of toil and sorrow. It is a fantastic creature. A skeleton
+      armed with a whip, who acts as plowboy to the old laborer, and running
+      along through the furrow beside the terrified horses, goads them on. This
+      is the specter Death, whom Holbein has introduced allegorically into that
+      series of religious and philosophic subjects, at once melancholy and
+      grotesque, entitled &ldquo;The Dance of Death.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+   * In toil and sorrow thou shalt eat
+     The bitter bread of poverty.
+     After the burden and the heat,
+     Lo! it is Death who calls for thee.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      In this collection, or rather this mighty composition, where Death, who
+      plays his part on every page, is the connecting link and predominating
+      thought, Holbein has called up kings, popes, lovers, gamesters, drunkards,
+      nuns, courtesans, thieves, warriors, monks, Jews, and travelers,&mdash;all
+      the people of his time and our own; and everywhere the specter Death is
+      among them, taunting, threatening, and triumphing. He is absent from one
+      picture only, where Lazarus, lying on a dunghill at the rich man's door,
+      declares that the specter has no terrors for him; probably because he has
+      nothing to lose, and his existence is already a life in death.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Is there comfort in this stoical thought of the half-pagan Christianity of
+      the Renaissance, and does it satisfy religious souls? The upstart, the
+      rogue, the tyrant, the rake, and all those haughty sinners who make an ill
+      use of life, and whose steps are dogged by Death, will be surely punished;
+      but can the reflection that death is no evil make amends for the long
+      hardships of the blind man, the beggar, the madman, and the poor peasant?
+      No! An inexorable sadness, an appalling fatality brood over the artist's
+      work. It is like a bitter curse, hurled against the fate of humanity.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Holbein's faithful delineation of the society in which he lived is,
+      indeed, painful satire. His attention was engrossed by crime and calamity;
+      but what shall we, who are artists of a later date, portray? Shall we look
+      to find the reward of the human beings of to-day in the contemplation of
+      death, and shall we invoke it as the penalty of unrighteousness and the
+      compensation of suffering?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      No, henceforth, our business is not with death, but with life. We believe
+      no longer in the nothingness of the grave, nor in safety bought with the
+      price of a forced renunciation; life must be enjoyed in order to be
+      fruitful. Lazarus must leave his dunghill, so that the poor need no longer
+      exult in the death of the rich. All must be made happy, that the good
+      fortune of a few may not be a crime and a curse. As the laborer sows his
+      wheat, he must know that he is helping forward the work of life, instead
+      of rejoicing that Death walks at his side. We may no longer consider death
+      as the chastisement of prosperity or the consolation of distress, for God
+      has decreed it neither as the punishment nor the compensation of life.
+      Life has been blessed by Him, and it is no longer permissible for us to
+      leave the grave as the only refuge for those whom we are unwilling to make
+      happy.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There are some artists of our own day, who, after a serious survey of
+      their surroundings, take pleasure in painting misery, the sordidness of
+      poverty, and the dunghill of Lazarus. This may belong to the domain of art
+      and philosophy; but by depicting poverty as so hideous, so degraded, and
+      sometimes so vicious and criminal, do they gain their end, and is that end
+      as salutary as they would wish? We dare not pronounce judgment. They may
+      answer that they terrify the unjust rich man by pointing out to him the
+      yawning pit that lies beneath the frail covering of wealth; just as in the
+      time of the Dance of Death, they showed him his gaping grave, and Death
+      standing ready to fold him in an impure embrace. Now, they show him the
+      thief breaking open his doors, and the murderer stealthily watching his
+      sleep. We confess we cannot understand how we can reconcile him to the
+      human nature he despises, or make him sensible of the sufferings of the
+      poor wretch whom he dreads, by showing him this wretch in the guise of the
+      escaped convict or the nocturnal burglar. The hideous phantom Death, under
+      the repulsive aspect in which he has been represented by Holbein and his
+      predecessors, gnashing his teeth and playing the fiddle, has been
+      powerless to convert the wicked and console their victims. And does not
+      our literature employ the same means as the artists of the Middle Ages and
+      the Renaissance?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The revelers of Holbein fill their glasses in a frenzy to dispel the idea
+      of Death, who is their cup-bearer, though they do not see him. The unjust
+      rich of our own day demand cannon and barricades to drive out the idea of
+      an insurrection of the people which Art shows them as slowly working in
+      the dark, getting ready to burst upon the State. The Church of the Middle
+      Ages met the terrors of the great of the earth with the sale of
+      indulgences. The government of to-day soothes the uneasiness of the rich
+      by exacting from them large sums for the support of policemen, jailors,
+      bayonets, and prisons.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Albert Durer, Michael Angelo, Holbein, Callot, and Goya have made powerful
+      satires on the evils of their times and countries, and their immortal
+      works are historical documents of unquestionable value. We shall not
+      refuse to artists the right to probe the wounds of society and lay them
+      bare to our eyes; but is the only function of art still to threaten and
+      appall? In the literature of the mysteries of iniquity, which talent and
+      imagination have brought into fashion, we prefer the sweet and gentle
+      characters, which can attempt and effect conversions, to the melodramatic
+      villains, who inspire terror; for terror never cures selfishness, but
+      increases it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      We believe that the mission of art is a mission of sentiment and love,
+      that the novel of to-day should take the place of the parable and the
+      fable of early times, and that the artist has a larger and more poetic
+      task than that of suggesting certain prudential and conciliatory measures
+      for the purpose of diminishing the fright caused by his pictures. His aim
+      should be to render attractive the objects he has at heart, and, if
+      necessary, I have no objection to his embellishing them a little. Art is
+      not the study of positive reality, but the search for ideal truth, and the
+      &ldquo;Vicar of Wakefield&rdquo; was a more useful and healthy book than the &ldquo;Paysan
+      Perverti,&rdquo; or the &ldquo;Liaisons Dangereuses.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Forgive these reflections of mine, kind reader, and let them stand as a
+      preface, for there will be no other to the little story I am going to
+      relate to you. My tale is to be so short and so simple, that I felt
+      obliged to make you my apologies for it beforehand, by telling you what I
+      think of the literature of terror.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I have allowed myself to be drawn into this digression for the sake of a
+      laborer; and it is the story of a laborer which I have been meaning to
+      tell you, and which I shall now tell you at once.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0002" id="linklink2H_4_0002">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <br />
+    </p>
+    <div class="fig" style="width:80%">
+      <img alt="page15 (110K)" src="images/page15.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <br />
+    </p>
+    <h2>
+      I &mdash; The Tillage of the Soil
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      I HAD just been looking long and sadly at Holbein's plowman, and was
+      walking through the fields, musing on rustic life and the destiny of the
+      husbandman. It is certainly tragic for him to spend his days and his
+      strength delving in the jealous earth, that so reluctantly yields up her
+      rich treasures when a morsel of coarse black bread, at the end of the
+      day's work, is the sole reward and profit to be reaped from such arduous
+      toil. The wealth of the soil, the harvests, the fruits, the splendid
+      cattle that grow sleek and fat in the luxuriant grass, are the property of
+      the few, and but instruments of the drudgery and slavery of the many. The
+      man of leisure seldom loves, for their own sake, the fields and meadows,
+      the landscape, or the noble animals which are to be converted into gold
+      for his use. He comes to the country for his health or for change of air,
+      but goes back to town to spend the fruit of his vassal's labor.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On the other hand, the peasant is too abject, too wretched, and too
+      fearful of the future to enjoy the beauty of the country and the charms of
+      pastoral life. To him, also, the yellow harvest-fields, the rich meadows,
+      the fine cattle represent bags of gold; but he knows that only an
+      infinitesimal part of their contents, insufficient for his daily needs,
+      will ever fall to his share. Yet year by year he must fill those accursed
+      bags, to please his master and buy the right of living on his land in
+      sordid wretchedness. Yet nature is eternally young, beautiful, and
+      generous. She pours forth poetry and beauty on all creatures and all
+      plants that are allowed free development.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She owns the secret of happiness, of which no one has ever robbed her. The
+      happiest of men would be he who, knowing the full meaning of his labor,
+      should, while working with his hands, find his happiness and his freedom
+      in the exercise of his intelligence, and, having his heart in unison with
+      his brain, should at once understand his own work and love that of God,
+      The artist has such delights as these in contemplating and reproducing the
+      beauties of nature; but if his heart be true and tender, his pleasure is
+      disturbed when he sees the miseries of the men who people this paradise of
+      earth. True happiness will be theirs when mind, heart, and hand shall work
+      in concert in the sight of Heaven, and there shall be a sacred harmony
+      between God's goodness and the joys of his creatures. Then, instead of the
+      pitiable and frightful figure of Death stalking, whip in hand, across the
+      fields, the painter of allegories may place beside the peasant a radiant
+      angel, sowing the blessed grain broadcast in the smoking furrow. The dream
+      of a serene, free, poetic, laborious, and simple life for the tiller of
+      the soil is not so impossible that we should banish it as a chimera. The
+      sweet, sad words of Virgil: &ldquo;Oh, happy the peasants of the field, if they
+      knew their own blessings!&rdquo; is a regret, but, like all regrets, it is also
+      a prophecy. The day will come when the laborer too may be an artist, and
+      may at least feel what is beautiful, if he cannot express it,&mdash;a
+      matter of far less importance. Do not we know that this mysterious poetic
+      intuition is already his, in the form of instinct and vague reverie? Among
+      those peasants who possess some of the comforts of life, and whose moral
+      and intellectual development is not entirely stifled by extreme
+      wretchedness, pure happiness that can be felt and appreciated exists in
+      the elementary stage; and, moreover, since poets have already raised their
+      voices out of the lap of pain and of weariness, why should we say that the
+      labor of the hands excludes the working of the soul? Without doubt this
+      exclusion is the common result of excessive toil and of deep misery; but
+      let it not be said that when men shall work moderately and usefully there
+      will be nothing but bad workers and bad poets. The man who draws in noble
+      joy from the poetic feeling is a true poet, though he has never written a
+      verse all his life.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      My thoughts had flown in this direction, without my perceiving that my
+      confidence in the capacity of man for education was strengthened by
+      external influences. I was walking along the edge of a field, which some
+      peasants were preparing to sow. The space was vast as that in Holbein's
+      picture; the landscape, too, was vast and framed in a great sweep of
+      green, slightly reddened by the approach of autumn. Here and there in the
+      great russet field, slender rivulets of water left in the furrows by the
+      late rains sparkled in the sunlight like silver threads. The day was clear
+      and mild, and the soil, freshly cleft by the plowshare, sent up a light
+      steam. At the other extremity of the field, an old man, whose broad
+      shoulders and stern face recalled Holbein's plowman, but whose clothes
+      carried no suggestion of poverty, was gravely driving his plow of antique
+      shape, drawn by two placid oxen, true patriarchs of the meadow, tall and
+      rather thin, with pale yellow coats and long, drooping horns. They were
+      those old workers who, through long habit, have grown to be <i>brothers</i>,
+      as they are called in our country, and who, when one loses the other,
+      refuse to work with a new comrade, and pine away with grief. People who
+      are unfamiliar with the country call the love of the ox for his
+      yoke-fellow a fable. Let them come and see in the corner of the stable one
+      of these poor beasts, thin and wasted, restlessly lashing his lean flanks
+      with his tail, violently breathing with mingled terror and disdain on the
+      food offered him, his eyes always turned toward the door, scratching with
+      his hoof the empty place at his side, sniffing the yokes and chains which
+      his fellow used to wear, and incessantly calling him with melancholy
+      lowings. The ox-herd will say: &ldquo;There is a pair of oxen gone;' this one
+      will work no more, for his brother is dead. We ought to fatten him for the
+      market, but he will not eat, and will soon starve himself to death.&rdquo; The
+      old laborer worked slowly, silently, and without waste of effort His
+      docile team were in no greater haste than he; but, thanks to the
+      undistracted steadiness of his toil and the judicious expenditure of his
+      strength, his furrow was as soon plowed as that of his son, who was
+      driving, at some distance from him, four less vigorous oxen through a more
+      stubborn and stony piece of ground.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      My attention was next caught by a fine spectacle, a truly noble subject
+      for a painter. At the other end of the field a fine-looking youth was
+      driving a magnificent team of four pairs of young oxen, through whose
+      somber coats glanced a ruddy, glow-like name. They had the short, curry
+      heads that belong to the wild bull, the same large, fierce eyes and jerky
+      movements; they worked in an abrupt, nervous way that showed how they
+      still rebelled against the yoke and goad, and trembled with anger as they
+      obeyed the authority so recently imposed. They were what is called &ldquo;newly
+      yoked&rdquo; oxen. The man who drove them had to clear a corner of the field
+      that had formerly been given up to pasture, and was filled with old
+      tree-stumps; and his youth and energy, and his eight half-broken animals,
+      hardly sufficed for the Herculean task.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A child of six or seven years old, lovely as an angel, wearing round his
+      shoulders, over his blouse, a sheepskin that made him look like a little
+      Saint John the Baptist out of a Renaissance picture, was running along in
+      the furrow beside the plow, pricking the flanks of the oxen with a long,
+      light goad but slightly sharpened. The spirited animals quivered under the
+      child's light touch, making their yokes and head-bands creak, and shaking
+      the pole violently. Whenever a root stopped the advance of the plowshare,
+      the laborer would call every animal by name in his powerful voice, trying
+      to calm rather than to excite them; for the oxen, irritated by the sudden
+      resistance, bounded, pawed the ground with their great cloven hoofs, and
+      would have jumped aside and dragged the plow across the fields, if the
+      young man had not kept the first four in order with his voice and goad,
+      while the child controlled the four others. The little fellow shouted too,
+      but the voice which he tried to make of terrible effect, was as sweet as
+      his angelic face. The whole scene was beautiful in its grace and strength;
+      the landscape, the man, the child, the oxen under the yoke; and in spite
+      of the mighty struggle by which the earth was subdued, a deep feeling of
+      peace and sweetness reigned over all. Each time that an obstacle was
+      surmounted and the plow resumed its even, solemn progress, the laborer,
+      whose pretended violence was but a trial of his strength, and an outlet
+      for his energy, instantly regained that serenity which is the right of
+      simple souls, and looked with fatherly pleasure toward his child, who
+      turned to smile back at him. Then the young father would raise his manly
+      voice in the solemn and melancholy chant that ancient tradition transmits,
+      not indeed to all plowmen indiscriminately, but to those who are most
+      perfect in the art of exciting and sustaining the spirit of cattle while
+      at work. This song, which was probably sacred in its origin, and to which
+      mysterious influences must once have been attributed, is still thought to
+      possess the virtue of putting animals on their mettle, allaying their
+      irritation, and of beguiling the weariness of their long, hard toil. It is
+      not enough to guide them skilfully, to trace a perfectly straight furrow,
+      and to lighten their labor by raising the plowshare or driving it into the
+      earth; no man can be a consummate husbandman who does not know how to sing
+      to his oxen, and that is an art that requires taste and especial gifts. To
+      tell the truth, this chant is only a recitative, broken off and taken up
+      at pleasure. Its irregular form and its intonations that violate all the
+      rules of musical art make it impossible to describe.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But it is none the less a noble song, and so appropriate is it to the
+      nature of the work it accompanies, to the gait of the oxen, to the peace
+      of the fields, and to the simplicity of the men who sing it, that no
+      genius unfamiliar with the tillage of the earth, and no man except an
+      accomplished laborer of our part of the country, could repeat it. At the
+      season of the year when there is no work or stir afoot except that of the
+      plowman, this strong, sweet refrain rises like the voice of the breeze, to
+      which the key it is sung in gives it some resemblance. Each phrase ends
+      with a long trill, the final note of which is held with incredible
+      strength of breath, and rises a quarter of a tone, sharping
+      systematically. It is barbaric, but possesses an unspeakable charm, and
+      anybody, once accustomed to hear it, cannot conceive of another song
+      taking its place at the same hour and in the same place, without striking
+      a discord.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      So it was that I had before my eyes a picture the reverse of that of
+      Holbein, although the scene was similar. Instead of a wretched old man, a
+      young and active one; instead of a team of weary and emaciated horses,
+      four yoke of robust and fiery oxen; instead of death, a beautiful child;
+      instead of despair and destruction, energy and the possibility of
+      happiness.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then the old French verse, &ldquo;À la sueur de ton vis-aige,&rdquo; etc., and
+      Virgil's &ldquo;O fortunatos... agricolas,&rdquo; returned to my mind, and seeing this
+      lovely child and his father, under such poetic conditions, and with so
+      much grace and strength, accomplish a task full of such grand and solemn
+      suggestions, I was conscious of deep pity and involuntary respect. Happy
+      the peasant of the fields! Yes, and so too should I be in his place, if my
+      arm and voice could be endowed with sudden strength, and I could help to
+      make Nature fruitful, and sing of her gifts, without ceasing to see with
+      my eyes or understand with my brain harmonious colors and sounds, delicate
+      shades and graceful outlines; in short, the mysterious beauty of all
+      things. And above all, if my heart continued to beat in concert with the
+      divine sentiment that presided over the immortal sublimity of creation.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But, alas! this man has never understood the mystery of beauty; this child
+      will never understand it. God forbid that I should not think them superior
+      to the animals which are subject to them, or that they have not moments of
+      rapturous insight that soothe their toil and lull their cares to sleep. I
+      see the seal of the Lord upon their noble brows, for they were born to
+      inherit the earth far more truly than those who have bought and paid for
+      it. The proof that they feel this is that they cannot be exiled with
+      impunity, that they love the soil they have watered with their tears, and
+      that the true peasant dies of homesickness under the arms of a soldier far
+      from his native field. But he lacks some of my enjoyments, those pure
+      delights which should be his by right, as a workman in that immense temple
+      which the sky only is vast enough to embrace. He lacks the consciousness
+      of his sentiment. Those who condemned him to slavery from his mother's
+      womb, being unable to rob him of his vague dreams, took away from him the
+      power of reflection.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Yet, imperfect being that he is, sentenced to eternal childhood, he is
+      nobler than the man in whom knowledge has stifled feeling. Do not set
+      yourselves above him, you who believe yourselves invested with a lawful
+      and inalienable right to rule over him, for your terrible mistake shows
+      that your brain has destroyed your heart, and that you are the blindest
+      and most incomplete of men! I love the simplicity of his soul more than
+      the false lights of yours; and if I had to narrate the story of his life,
+      the pleasure I should take in bringing out the tender and touching side of
+      it would be greater than your merit in painting the degradation and
+      contempt into which he is cast by your social code.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I knew the young man and the beautiful child; I knew their history, for
+      they had a history. Everybody has his own, and could make the romance of
+      his life interesting, if he could but understand it. Although but a
+      peasant and a laborer, Germain had always been aware of his duties and
+      affections. He had related them to me clearly and ingenuously, and I had
+      listened with interest. After some time spent in watching him plow, it
+      occurred to me that I might write his story, though that story were as
+      simple, as straightforward, and unadorned as the furrow he was tracing.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Next year that furrow will be filled and covered by a fresh one. Thus
+      disappear most of the footprints made by man in the field of human life. A
+      little earth obliterates them, and the furrows we have dug succeed one
+      another like graves in a cemetery. Is not the furrow of the laborer of as
+      much value as that of the idler, even if that idler, by some absurd
+      chance, have made a little noise in the world, and left behind him an
+      abiding name?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I mean, if possible, to save from oblivion the furrow of Germain, the
+      skilled husbandman. He will never know nor care, but I shall take pleasure
+      in my talk.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0003" id="linklink2H_4_0003">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      II &mdash; Father Maurice
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;GERMAIN,&rdquo; said his father-in-law one day, &ldquo;you must decide about marrying
+      again. It is almost two years now since you lost my daughter, and your
+      eldest boy is seven years old! You are almost thirty, my boy, and you know
+      that in our country a man is considered too old to go to housekeeping
+      again after that age; you have three nice children, and thus far they have
+      not proved a burden to us at all. My wife and my daughter-in-law have
+      looked after them as well as they could, and loved them as they ought.
+      Here is Petit-Pierre almost grown up. He goads the oxen very well; he
+      knows how to look after the cattle; and he is strong enough to drive the
+      horses to the trough. So it is not he that worries us. But the other two,
+      love them though we do, God knows the poor little innocents give us
+      trouble enough this year; my daughter-in-law is about to lie in, and she
+      has yet another baby to attend to. When the child we are expecting comes,
+      she will not be able to look after your little Solange, and above all your
+      Sylvain, who is not four years old, and who is never quiet day or night.
+      He has a restless disposition like yours; that will make a good workman of
+      him, but it makes a dreadful child, and my old wife cannot run fast enough
+      to save him when he almost tumbles into the ditch, or when he throws
+      himself in front of the tramping cattle. And then with this other that my
+      daughter-in-law is going to bring into the world, for a month at least her
+      next older child will fall on my wife's hands. Besides, your children
+      worry us, and give us too much to do; we hate to see children badly looked
+      after, and when we think of the accidents that may befall them, for want
+      of care, we cannot rest. So you need another wife, and I another
+      daughter-in-law. Think this over, my son. I have called it to your mind
+      before. Time flies, and the years will not wait a moment for you. It is
+      your duty to your children and to the rest of us, who wish all well at
+      home, to marry as soon as you can.&rdquo; &ldquo;Very well, father,&rdquo; answered the
+      son-in-law, &ldquo;if you really wish it, I must do as you say. But I do not
+      wish to hide it from you that it will make me very sad, and that I hardly
+      wish tor anything but to drown myself. We know who it is we lose, we never
+      know whom we find. I had a good wife, a pretty wife, sweet, brave, good to
+      her father and mother, good to her husband, good to her children, good to
+      toil in the fields and in the house, well fitted to work,&mdash;in short,
+      good for everything; and when you had given her to me, and I took her, we
+      did not place it among our promises that I should go and forget about her
+      if I had the misfortune to lose her.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What you say shows your good heart, Germain,&rdquo; answered Father Maurice. &ldquo;I
+      know that you loved my daughter and that you made her happy, and that had
+      you been able to satisfy Death by going in her place, Catherine would be
+      alive today, and you would be in the graveyard. She deserved all your
+      love, and if you are not consoled, neither are we. But I do not speak to
+      you of forgetting her: God wished her to leave us, and we do not let a day
+      go by without telling him in our prayers and thoughts, and words and
+      actions, that we keep her memory and still sorrow for her loss. But if she
+      could speak to you from the other world, and let you know what she wishes,
+      she would tell you to find a mother for her little orphans. So the
+      question is to find a woman who will be worthy to take her place. It will
+      not be easy, but it is not impossible. And when we shall find her for you,
+      you will love her as you used to love my daughter, because you are a good
+      man, and because you will be thankful to her for helping us and for loving
+      your children.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Very well, Father Maurice, I shall do as you wish, as I have always
+      done.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is only justice, my son, to say that you have always listened to the
+      friendly advice and good judgment of the head of the house. So let us
+      consult about your choice of a new wife. First, I don't advise you to take
+      a young girl. That is not what you need. Youth is careless, and, as it is
+      hard work to bring up three children, especially when they are of another
+      bed, you must have a good soul, wise and gentle, and well used to work. If
+      your wife is not about the same age as you, she will have no reason to
+      accept such a duty. She will find you too old and your children too young.
+      She will be complaining, and your children will suffer.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;This is just what makes me uneasy. Suppose the poor little things should
+      be badly treated, hated, beaten?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;God grant not,&rdquo; answered the old man. &ldquo;But bad women are more rare with
+      us than good, and we shall be stupid if we cannot pick out somebody who
+      will suit us.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That is true, father. There are good girls in our village. There is
+      Louise, Sylvaine, Claudie, Marguerite&mdash;yes, anybody you want.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Gently, gently, my boy. All these girls are too young, or too poof, or
+      too pretty; for surely we must think of that top, my son. A pretty woman
+      is not always as well behaved as another!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then you wish me to take an ugly wife?&rdquo; said Germain, a little uneasy.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, not ugly at all, for this woman will bear you other children, and
+      there is nothing more miserable than to have children who are ugly and
+      weak and sickly. But a woman still fresh and in good health, who is
+      neither pretty nor ugly, would suit you exactly.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am quite sure,&rdquo; said Germain, smiling rather sadly, &ldquo;that to get such a
+      woman as you wish, you must have her made to order. All the more because
+      you don't wish her to be poor, and the rich are not easy to get,
+      particularly for a widower.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And suppose she were a widow herself, Germain? A widow without children
+      and with a good portion?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;For the moment, I cannot think of anybody like this in our parish.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Nor I either. But there are others elsewhere.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You have somebody in mind, father. Then tell me, at once, who it is.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0004" id="linklink2H_4_0004">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      III &mdash; Germain, the Skilled Husbandman
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;YES, I have somebody in mind,&rdquo; replied Father Maurice. &ldquo;It is a Leonard,
+      the widow of a Guérin. She lives at Fourche.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I know neither the woman nor the place,&rdquo; answered Germain, resigned, but
+      growing more and more melancholy.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Her name is Catherine, like your dead wife's.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Catherine? Yes, I shall be glad to have to pronounce that name,
+      Catherine; and yet if I cannot love one as much as the other, it will pain
+      me all the more. It will bring her to my mind more often.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I tell you, you will love her. She is a good soul, a woman with a warm
+      heart. I have not seen her for a long time. She was not an ugly girl then.
+      But she is no longer young. She is thirty-two. She comes of a good family,
+      honest people all of them, and for property she has eight or ten thousand
+      francs in land which she would sell gladly in order to invest in the place
+      where she settles. For she, too, is thinking of marrying again, and I know
+      that if your character pleases her, she will not be dissatisfied with your
+      situation.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;So you have made all the arrangements?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, except that I have not had an opinion from either of you, and that
+      is what you must ask each other when you meet. The woman's father is a
+      distant connection of mine, and he has been a good friend to me. You know
+      Father Leonard well?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, I have seen you two talking at the market, and at the last you
+      lunched together. Then it was about her that he spoke to you so long?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Certainly. He watched you selling your cattle and saw that you drove a
+      shrewd bargain, and that you were a good-looking fellow and appeared
+      active and intelligent; and when I told him what a good fellow you were
+      and how well you have behaved toward us, without one word of vexation or
+      anger during the eight years we have been living and working together, he
+      took it into his head to marry you to his daughter. This suits me, too, I
+      admit, when I think of her good reputation and the honesty of her family
+      and the prosperous condition I know her affairs are in.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I see, Father Maurice, that you have an eye to money.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Of course I do; you have, too, have you not?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I do look toward it, if you wish, for your sake; but you know that, for
+      my own part, I don't worry whether I gain or not in what we make. I don't
+      understand about profit-sharing; I have no head for that sort of thing. I
+      understand the ground; I understand cattle, horses, carts, sowing,
+      threshing, and provender. As for sheep, and vineyards, and vegetables,
+      petty profits, and fine gardening, you know that is your son's business. I
+      don't have much to do with it. As to money, my memory is short, and I
+      should rather give up everything than fight about what is yours and what
+      is mine. I should be afraid of making some mistake and claiming what does
+      not belong to me, and if business were not so clear and simple I should
+      never find my way in it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;So much the worse, my son; and this is the reason I wish you to have a
+      wife with a clear head to fill my place when I am gone. You never wished
+      to understand our accounts, and this might lead you into a quarrel with my
+      son, when you don't have me any longer to keep you in harmony and decide
+      what is each one's share.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;May you live long, Father Maurice. But do not worry about what will
+      happen when you die. I shall never quarrel with your son. I trust Jacques
+      as I do you; and as I have no property of my own, and all that might
+      accrue to me comes from your daughter and belongs to our children, I can
+      rest easy, and you, too. Jacques would never rob his sister's children for
+      the sake of his own, for he loves them all equally.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are right, Germain. Jacques is a good son, a good brother, and a man
+      who loves the truth. But Jacques may die before you, before your children
+      grow up; and in a family we must always remember never to leave children
+      without a head to look after them and govern their disagreements;
+      otherwise, the lawyer-people mix themselves up in it, stir them up to
+      fight, and make them eat up everything in law-suits. So we ought not to
+      think of bringing home another person, man or woman, without remembering
+      that some day or other that person may have to control the behavior and
+      business of twenty or thirty children and grandchildren, sons-in-law and
+      daughters-in-law. We never know how big a family can grow, and when a hive
+      is so full that the bees must form new swarms, each one wishes to carry
+      off her share of the honey. When I took you for my son, although my
+      daughter was rich and you were poor, I never reproached her for choosing
+      you. I saw that you were a hard worker, and I knew very well that the best
+      fortune for people in such a country as ours is a pair of arms and a heart
+      like yours. When a man brings these into a family, he brings enough. But
+      with a woman it is different. Her work indoors saves, but it does not
+      gain. Besides, now that you are a father, looking for a second wife, you
+      must remember that your new children will have no claim on the property of
+      your children by another wife; and if you should happen to die they might
+      suffer very much&mdash;at least, if your wife had no money in her own
+      right. And then the children which you will add to our colony will cost
+      something to bring up. If that fell on us alone, we should surely take
+      care of them without a word of complaint; but the comfort of everybody
+      would suffer, and your eldest children would bear their share of hardship.
+      When families grow too large, if money does not keep pace, misery comes,
+      no matter how bravely you bear up. This is what I wished to say, Germain;
+      think it over, and try to make the widow Guérin like you; for her
+      discretion and her dollars will help us now and make us feel easy about
+      the future.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That is true, Father. I shall try to please her and to like her.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;To do that you must go to find her, and see her.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;At her own place? At Fourche? That is a great way from here, is it not?
+      And we scarcely have time to run off at this season of the year.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;When it is a question of a love-match you must make up your mind to lose
+      time, but when it is a sensible marriage of two people, who take no sudden
+      fancies and know what they want, it is very soon decided. To-morrow is
+      Saturday; you will make your day's work a little shorter than usual. You
+      must start after dinner about two o'clock. You will be at Fourche by
+      nightfall. The moon rises early. The roads are good, and it is not more
+      than three leagues distant. It is near Magnier. Besides, you will take the
+      mare.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I had just as lief go afoot in this cool weather.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, but the mare is pretty, and a suitor looks better when he comes well
+      mounted. You must put on your new clothes and carry a nice present of game
+      to Father Leonard. You will come from me and talk with him, pass all of
+      Sunday with his daughter, and come back Monday morning with a yes or no.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; answered Germain calmly, and yet he did not feel very calm.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain had always lived soberly, as industrious peasants do. Married at
+      twenty, he had loved but one woman in his life, and after her death,
+      impulsive and gay as his nature was, he had never played nor trifled with
+      another. He had borne a real sorrow faithfully in his heart, and it was
+      not without misgiving nor without sadness that he yielded to his
+      father-in-law; but that father had always governed the family wisely, and
+      Germain, entirely devoted as he was to the common welfare and so, by
+      consequence, to the head of the house, who represented it, could not
+      understand that he might have wronged his own good sense and hurt the
+      interests of all. Nevertheless, he was sad. Few days went by when he did
+      not cry in secret, for his wife, and although loneliness began to weigh on
+      him, he was more afraid of entering into a new marriage than desirous of
+      finding a support in his sorrow. He had a vague idea that love might have
+      consoled him by coming to him of a sudden, for this is the only way love
+      can console. We never find it when we seek it; it comes over us unawares.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This cold-blooded scheme of marriage that Father Maurice had opened to
+      him, this unknown woman he was to take for his bride, perhaps even all
+      that had been said to him of her virtue and good sense, made him pause to
+      think. And he went away musing as men do whose thoughts are too few to
+      divide into hostile factions, not scraping up fine arguments for rebellion
+      and selfishness but suffering from a dull grief, submissive to ills from
+      which there is no escape.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Meanwhile, Father Maurice had returned to the farm, while Germain, between
+      sunset and dark, spent the closing hour of the day in repairing gaps the
+      sheep had made in the hedge of a yard near the farm-buildings. He lifted
+      up the branches of the thorn-bushes and held them in place with clods of
+      earth, whilst the thrushes chattered in the neighboring thicket and seemed
+      to call to him to hurry, for they were eager to come and see his work as
+      soon as he had gone.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0005" id="linklink2H_4_0005">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      IV &mdash; Mother Guillette
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      FATHER MAURICE found at his house an old neighbor who had come to talk
+      with his wife, seeking at the same time to secure a few embers to light
+      her fire. Mother Guillette lived in a wretched hut two gunshots away from
+      the farm. Still she was a willing and an orderly woman. Her poor dwelling
+      was clean and neat, and the care with which her clothes were mended showed
+      that she respected herself in the midst of her penury.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You have come to fetch your evening fire, Mother Guillette,&rdquo; said the old
+      man to her. &ldquo;Is there anything else you want?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, Father Maurice,&rdquo; answered she; &ldquo;nothing for the present. I am no
+      beggar, as you know, and I take care not to abuse the kindness of my
+      friends.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That is very true. Besides, your friends are always ready to do you a
+      service.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I was just talking to your wife, and I was asking her if Germain had
+      finally decided to marry again.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are no gossip,&rdquo; replied Father Maurice; &ldquo;we can talk in your presence
+      without having any foolish tale-bearing to fear. So I will tell my wife
+      and you that Germain has made up his mind absolutely. To-morrow morning he
+      starts for the farm at Fourche.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Good enough!&rdquo; cried Mother Maurice; &ldquo;poor child! God grant he may find a
+      woman as good and true as he.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;So he is going to Fourche?&rdquo; remarked Mother Guillette; &ldquo;how lucky that
+      is! It is exactly what I want. And since you were just asking me if there
+      were anything I wished for, I am going to tell you, Father Maurice, how
+      you can do me a service.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Tell me what it is; we like to help you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I wish Germain would be so kind as to take my daughter along with him.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Where? To Fourche?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, not to Fourche, but to Ormeaux. She is to stay there the rest of the
+      year.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; exclaimed Mother Maurice, &ldquo;are you going to separate from your
+      daughter?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;She must go out to work and earn her living. I am sorry enough, and she
+      is too, poor soul. We could not make up our minds to part Saint John's
+      Day, but now that Saint Martin's is upon us, she finds a good place as
+      shepherdess at the farms at Ormeaux. On his way home from the fair the
+      other day, the farmer passed by here. He caught sight of my little Marie
+      tending her three sheep on the common.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;'You have hardly enough to do, my little girl,' said he; 'three sheep are
+      not enough for a shepherdess: would you like to take care of a hundred? I
+      will take you along. Our shepherdess has fallen sick. She is going back to
+      her family, and if you will be at our farm before a week is over, you
+      shall have fifty francs for the rest of the year up to Saint John's Day.'
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;The child refused, but she could not help thinking it over and telling me
+      about it, when she came home in the evening, and found me downhearted and
+      worried about the winter, which was sure to be hard and long; for this
+      year the cranes and wild ducks were seen crossing the sky a whole month
+      before they generally do. We both of us cried, but after a time we took
+      heart. We knew that we could not stay together, since it is hard enough
+      for one person to get a living from our little patch of ground. Then since
+      Marie is old enough,&mdash;for she is going on to sixteen,&mdash;she must
+      do like the rest, earn her own living and help her poor mother.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Mother Guillette,&rdquo; said the old laborer, &ldquo;if it were only fifty francs
+      you needed to help you out of your trouble, and save you from sending away
+      your daughter, I should certainly find them for you, although fifty francs
+      is no trifle for people like us. But in everything we must consult common
+      sense as well as friendship. To be saved from want this year will not keep
+      you from want in the future, and the longer your daughter takes to make up
+      her mind, the harder you both will find it to part. Little Marie is
+      growing tall and strong. She has not enough at home to keep her busy. She
+      might get into lazy habits...&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, I am not afraid of that!&rdquo; exclaimed Mother Guillette. &ldquo;Marie is as
+      active as a rich girl at the head of a large family can be. She never sits
+      still with her arms folded for an instant, and when we have no work to do,
+      she keeps dusting and polishing our old furniture until it shines like a
+      mirror. The child is worth her weight in gold, and I should much rather
+      have her enter your service as a shepherdess than go so far away to people
+      I don't know. You would have taken her at Saint John's Day; but now you
+      have hired all your hands, and we cannot think of that till Saint John's
+      Day next year.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, I consent with all my heart, Guillette. I shall be very glad to take
+      her. But in the mean time she will do well to learn her work, and accustom
+      herself to obey others.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, that is true, no doubt. The die is cast. The farmer at Ormeaux sent
+      to ask about her this morning; we consented, and she must go. But the poor
+      child does not know the way, and I should not like to send her so far
+      alone. Since your son-in-law goes to Fourche to-morrow, perhaps he can
+      take her. It seems that Fourche is close to her journey's end. At least,
+      so they tell me, for I have never made the trip myself.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is very near indeed, and my son will show her the way. Naturally, he
+      might even take her up behind him on the mare. That will save her shoes.
+      Here he comes for supper. Tell me, Germain, Mother Guillette's little
+      Marie is going to become a shepherdess at Ormeaux. Will you take her there
+      on your horse?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Certainly,&rdquo; answered Germain, who, troubled as he was, never felt
+      indisposed to do a kindness to his neighbor.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In our community a mother would not think of such a thing as to trust a
+      girl of sixteen to a man of twenty-eight. For Germain was really but
+      twenty-eight, and although according to the notions of the country people
+      he was considered rather old to marry, he was still the best-looking man
+      in the neighborhood. Toil had not wrinkled and worn him as it does most
+      peasants who have passed ten years in till-ing the soil. He was strong
+      enough to labor for ten more years without showing signs of age, and the
+      prejudices of her time must have weighed heavily on the mind of a young
+      girl to prevent her from seeing that Germain had a fresh complexion, eyes
+      sparkling and blue as skies in May, ruddy lips, fine teeth, and a body
+      well shaped and lithe as a young horse that has never yet left his
+      pasture.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But purity of manners is a sacred custom in some districts far distant
+      from the corrupted life of great cities, and amongst all the households of
+      Belair, the family of Maurice was known to be honest and truth-loving.
+      Germain was on his way to find a wife. Marie was a child, too young and
+      too poor to be thought of in this light, and unless he were a heartless
+      and a bad man he could not entertain one evil thought concerning her.
+      Father Maurice felt no uneasiness at seeing him take the pretty girl on
+      the crupper. Mother Guillette would have thought herself doing him a wrong
+      had she asked him to respect her daughter as his sister. Marie embraced
+      her mother and her young friends twenty times, and then mounted the mare
+      in tears. Germain, sad on his own account, felt all the more sympathy for
+      her sorrow, and rode away with a melancholy air, while all the people of
+      the neighborhood waved good-by to Marie without a thought of harm.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0006" id="linklink2H_4_0006">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      V &mdash; Petit-Pierre
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      THE gray was young, good-looking, and strong. She carried her double
+      burden with ease, laying back her ears and champing her bit like the
+      high-spirited mare she was. Passing in front of the pasture, she caught
+      sight of her mother, whose name was the Old Gray as hers was the Young
+      Gray, and she whinnied in token of good-by. The Old Gray came nearer the
+      hedge, and striking her shoes together she tried to gallop along the edge
+      of the field in order to follow her daughter; then seeing her fall into a
+      sharp trot, the mare whinnied in her turn and stood in an uneasy attitude,
+      her nose in the air and her mouth filled with grass that she had no
+      thought of eating.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That poor beast always knows her offspring,&rdquo; said Germain, trying to keep
+      Marie's thoughts from her troubles. &ldquo;That reminds me, I never kissed
+      Petit-Pierre before I started. The naughty boy was not there. Last night
+      he wished to make me promise to take him along, and he wept for an hour in
+      bed. This morning again, he tried everything to persuade me. Oh, how sly
+      and coaxing he is! But when he saw that he could not gain his point, the
+      young gentleman got into a temper. He went off to the fields, and I have
+      not seen him all day.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I have seen him,&rdquo; said little Marie, striving to keep back her tears; &ldquo;he
+      was running toward the clearing with Soulas' children, and I felt sure
+      that he had been away from home a long time, for he was hungry and was
+      eating wild plums and blackberries. I gave him the bread I had for lunch,
+      and he said, 'Thank you, dear Marie; when you come to our house, I will
+      give you some cake.' He is a dear little child, Germain.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, he is,&rdquo; answered the laborer; &ldquo;and there is nothing I would not do
+      for him. If his grandmother had not more sense than I, I could not have
+      helped taking him with me, when I saw him crying as though his poor little
+      heart would burst.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then why did you not take him, Germain? He, would have been very little
+      trouble. He is so good when you please him.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He would probably have been in the way in the place where I am going. At
+      least Father Maurice thought so. On the other hand, I should have thought
+      it well to see how they received him. For no one could help being kind to
+      such a nice child. But at home they said that I must not begin by showing
+      off all the cares of the household. I don't know why I speak of this to
+      you, little Marie; you can't understand.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, yes, I do; I know that you are going away to marry; my mother spoke
+      to me about it, and told me not to mention it to a soul, either at home or
+      at my destination, and you need not be afraid; I shall not breathe a word
+      about it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are very right. For the deed is n't done yet. Perhaps I shall not
+      suit this woman.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I hope you will, Germain; why should you not suit her?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Who knows? I have three children, and that is a heavy burden for a woman
+      who is not their mother.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Very true. But are not your children like other children?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Do you think so?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;They are lovely as little angels, and so well brought up that you can't
+      find better children.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;There 's Sylvain. He is none too obedient.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He is so very little. He can't help being naughty. But he is very
+      bright.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He is bright it is true, and very brave. He is not afraid of cows nor
+      bulls, and if he were given his own way, he would be climbing on horseback
+      already with his elder brother.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Had I been in your place, I would have taken the eldest boy along. Surely
+      people would have liked you at once for having such a pretty child.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, if a woman is fond of children. But if she is not.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Are there women who don't love children?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not many, I think, but still there are some, and that is what troubles
+      me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You don't know this woman at all, then?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No more than you, and I fear that I shall not know her better after I
+      have seen her. I am not suspicious. When people say nice things to me, I
+      believe them, but more than once I have had good reason to repent, for
+      words are not deeds.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;They say that she is a very good woman.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Who says so? Father Maurice?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, your father-in-law.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That is all very well. But he knows her no more than I.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well, you will soon see. Pay close attention, and let us hope that you
+      will not be deceived.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I have it. Little Marie, I should be very much obliged if you would come
+      into the house for a minute before you go straight on to Ormeaux. You are
+      quick-witted; you have always shown that you are not stupid, and nothing
+      escapes your notice. Should you see anything to rouse your suspicions, you
+      must warn me of it very quietly.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh! no, Germain, I will not do that; I should be too much afraid of
+      making a mistake; and, besides, if a word lightly spoken were to turn you
+      against this marriage, your family would bear me a grudge, and I have
+      plenty of troubles now without bringing any more on my poor dear mother.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      As they were talking thus, the gray pricked up her ears and shied; then
+      returning on her steps, she approached the bushes, where she began to
+      recognize something which had frightened her at first. Germain cast his
+      eye over the thicket, and in a ditch, beneath the branches of a scrub-oak,
+      still thick and green, he saw something which he took for a lamb.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;The little creature is strayed or dead, for it does not move. Perhaps
+      some one is looking for it; we must see.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is not an animal,&rdquo; cried little Marie; &ldquo;it is a sleeping child. It is
+      your Petit-Pierre.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Heavens!&rdquo; exclaimed Germain; &ldquo;see the little scamp asleep so far away
+      from home, and in a ditch where a snake might bite him!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He lifted up the child, who smiled as he opened his eyes and threw his
+      arms about his father's neck, saying: &ldquo;Dear little father, you are going
+      to take me with you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, yes; always the same tune. What were you doing there, you naughty
+      Pierre?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I was waiting for my little father to go by. I was watching the road, and
+      I watched so hard that I fell asleep.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And if I had passed by without seeing you, you would have been out of
+      doors all night, and a wolf would have eaten you up.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, I knew very well that you would see me,&rdquo; answered Petit-Pierre,
+      confidently.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well, kiss me now, bid me good-by, and run back quickly to the house,
+      unless you wish them to have supper without you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Are you not going to take me, then?&rdquo; cried the little boy, beginning to
+      rub his eyes to show that he was thinking of tears.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You know very well that grandpapa and grand-mama do not wish it,&rdquo; said
+      Germain, fortifying himself behind the authority of his elders, like a man
+      who distrusts his own.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The child would not listen. He began to cry with all his might, saying
+      that as long as his father was taking little Marie, he might just as well
+      take him too. They replied that they must pass through great woods filled
+      with wicked beasts who eat up little children. The gray would not carry
+      three people; she had said so when they were starting, and in the country
+      where they were going there was no bed and no supper for little boys. All
+      these good reasons could not persuade Petit-Pierre; he threw himself on
+      the ground, and rolled about, shrieking that his little father did not
+      love him any more, and that if he did not take him he would never go back
+      to the house at all, day or night.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain had a father's heart, as soft and weak as a woman's. His-wife's
+      death, and the care which he had been obliged to bestow all alone on his
+      little ones, as well as the thought that these poor motherless children
+      needed a great deal of love, combined to make him thus. So such a sharp
+      struggle went on within him, all the more because he was ashamed of his
+      weakness and tried to hide his confusion from little Marie, that the sweat
+      started out on his forehead, and his eyes grew red and almost ready to
+      weep. At last he tried to get angry, but as he turned toward little Marie
+      in order to let her witness his strength of mind, he saw that the good
+      girls face was wet with tears; all his courage forsook him and he could
+      not keep back his own, scold and threaten as he would.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Truly your heart is too hard,&rdquo; said little Marie at last, &ldquo;and for myself
+      I know that I never could refuse a child who felt so badly. Come, Germain,
+      let 's take him. Your mare is well used to carrying two people and a
+      child, for you know that your brother-in-law and his wife, who is much
+      heavier than I, go to market every Saturday with their boy on this good
+      beast's back. Take him on the horse in front of you. Besides, I should
+      rather walk on foot all alone than give this little boy so much pain.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Never mind,&rdquo; answered Germain, who was dying to allow himself to give
+      way. &ldquo;The gray is strong, and could carry two more if there were room on
+      her back. But what can we do with this child on the way? He will be cold
+      and hungry, and who will take care of him to-night and tomorrow, put him
+      to bed, wash him, and dress him? I don't dare give this trouble to a woman
+      I don't know, who will think, doubtless, that I am exceedingly free and
+      easy with her to begin with.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Trust me, Germain, you will know her at once by the kindness or the
+      impatience that she shows. If she does not care to receive your Pierre, I
+      will take charge of him myself. I will go to her house and dress him, and
+      I will take him to the fields with me to-morrow. I will amuse him all day
+      long, and take good care that he does not want for anything.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He will tire you, my poor girl, and give you trouble. A whole day is a
+      long time.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not at all; it will give me pleasure; he will keep me company, and that
+      will make me less sad the first day that I must pass in a new place. I
+      shall fancy that I am still at home.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Seeing that little Marie was pleading for her, the child seized upon her
+      skirt and held it so tight that they must have hurt him in order to tear
+      it away. When he perceived that his father was weakening, he took Marie's
+      hand in both his tiny sunburned fists and kissed her, leaping for joy, and
+      pulling her toward the mare with the burning impatience children feel in
+      their desires.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Come along,&rdquo; said the young girl, lifting him in her arms; &ldquo;let us try to
+      quiet his poor little heart. It is fluttering like a little bird; and if
+      you feel the cold when night comes on, tell me, my Pierre, and I will wrap
+      you in my cape. Kiss your little father, and beg his pardon for being
+      naughty. Tell him that you will never, never be so again. Do you hear?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, yes, provided that I always do just as he wishes. Is n't it so?&rdquo;
+       said Germain, drying the little boy's eyes with his handkerchief. &ldquo;Marie,
+      you are spoiling the little rascal. But really and truly, you are too
+      good, little Marie. I don't know why you did not come to us as shepherdess
+      last Saint John's Day. You would have taken care of my children, and I
+      should much rather pay a good price for their sake than try to find a
+      woman who will think, perhaps, she is doing me a great kindness if she
+      does not detest them.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You must not look on the dark side of things,&rdquo; answered little Marie,
+      holding the horse's bridle while Germain placed his son in front of the
+      big pack-saddle covered with goatskin. &ldquo;If your wife does not care for
+      children, take me into your service next year, and you may be sure I shall
+      amuse them so well that they will not notice anything.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0007" id="linklink2H_4_0007">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      VI &mdash; On the Heath
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;DEAR ME,&rdquo; said Germain, after they had gone a few steps farther, &ldquo;what
+      will they think at home when they miss the little man? The family will be
+      worried, and will be looking everywhere for him.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You can tell the man who is mending the road up there that you are taking
+      him along, and ask him to speak to your people.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That is very true, Marie; you don't forget anything. It never occurred to
+      me that Jeannie must be there.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He lives close to the farm, and he will not fail to do your errand.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      When they had taken this precaution, Germain put the mare to a trot, and
+      Petit-Pierre was so overjoyed that for a time he forgot that he had gone
+      without his dinner; but the motion of the horse gave him a hollow feeling
+      in his stomach, and at the end of a league, he began to gape and grow
+      pale, and confessed that he was dying of hunger.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;This is the way it begins,&rdquo; exclaimed Germain. &ldquo;I was quite sure that we
+      should not go far without this young gentleman crying with hunger or
+      thirst.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am thirsty, too!&rdquo; said Petit-Pierre.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Very well, then, let 's go to Mother Rebec's tavern at Corlay, the sign
+      of 'The Dawn'&mdash;a pretty sign, but a poor lodging. You will take
+      something to drink, too, will you not, Marie?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, no; I don't want anything. I will hold the mare while you go in with
+      the child.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But I remember, my good girl, that this morning you gave the bread from
+      your own breakfast to my Pierre. You have had nothing to eat. You would
+      not take dinner with us at home; you would do nothing but cry.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, I was not hungry; I felt too sad, and I give you my word that even
+      now I have no desire to eat.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You must oblige yourself to eat, little girl, else you will fall sick. We
+      have a long way to go, and it will not do to arrive half-starved and beg
+      for bread before we say how d' ye do. I shall set you a good example
+      myself, although I am not very hungry: and I am sure that I can, for,
+      after all, I did not eat any dinner. I saw you crying, you and your
+      mother, and it made me feel sad. Come along. I am going to tie the gray at
+      the door. Get down; I wish you to.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      All three entered the inn, and in less than fifteen minutes the fat, lame
+      hostess was able to place before them a nice-looking omelette, some brown
+      bread, and a bottle of light wine.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Peasants do not eat quickly, and little Pierre had such a good appetite
+      that a whole hour passed before Germain could think of starting out again.
+      At first little Marie ate in order to be obliging; then little by little
+      she grew hungry. For, at sixteen, a girl cannot fast for long, and country
+      air is dictatorial.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The kind words with which Germain knew how to comfort her and strengthen
+      her courage, produced their effect. She tried hard to persuade herself
+      that seven months would soon be over, and to think of the pleasure in
+      store for her when she saw once more her family and her hamlet; for Father
+      Maurice and Germain had both promised to take her into their service. But
+      just as she began to cheer up and play with little Pierre, Germain was so
+      unfortunate as to point out to her from the inn window the lovely view of
+      the valley which can all be seen from this height, and which looks so
+      happy and green and fertile.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Marie looked and asked if the houses of Belair were in sight.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No doubt,&rdquo; said Germain, &ldquo;and the farm, too, and even your house&mdash;see!
+      that tiny gray spot not far from Godard's big poplar, below the belfry.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Ah, I see it,&rdquo; said the little girl; and then she began to cry.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I ought not to have made you think of it,&rdquo; said Germain. &ldquo;I can do
+      nothing but stupid things today. Come along, Marie; let 's start, and in
+      an hour, when the moon rises, it will not be hot.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      They resumed their journey across the great heath, and for fear of tiring
+      the young girl and the child by too rapid a trot, Germain did not make the
+      gray go very fast. The sun had set when they left the road to enter the
+      wood.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain knew the way as far as Magnier, but he thought it would be shorter
+      to avoid the Chantaloube road and descend by Presles and La Sépulture, a
+      route he was not in the habit of taking on his way to the fair. He lost
+      his way, and wasted more time before he reached the wood. Even then he did
+      not enter it on the right side, although he did not perceive his mistake,
+      so that he turned his back on Fourche, and took a direction higher up on
+      the way to Ardente.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He was prevented still further from finding his way by a thick mist which
+      rose as the night fell; one of those mists which come on autumn evenings
+      when the whiteness of the moonlight renders them more undefined and more
+      treacherous. The great pools of water scattered through the glades gave
+      forth a vapor so dense that when the gray crossed them, their presence was
+      known only by a splashing noise, and the difficulty with which she drew
+      her feet from the mud.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At last they found a good straight road, and when they came to the end of
+      it, and Germain tried to discover where he was, he saw that he was lost.
+      For Father Maurice had told him, when he explained the way, that on
+      leaving the wood he must descend a very steep hillside, cross a wide
+      meadow, and ford the river twice. He had even warned him to cross this
+      river carefully; for, early in the season, there had been great rains, and
+      the water might still be higher than usual. Seeing neither hillside nor
+      meadows, nor river, but a heath, level and white as a mantle of snow,
+      Germain stopped, looked about for a house, and waited for a passer-by, but
+      could find nothing to set him right. Then he retraced his steps and
+      reentered the wood. But the mist thickened yet more, the moon was
+      completely hidden, the roads were execrable, and the quagmires deep. Twice
+      the gray almost fell. Her heavy load made her lose courage, and although
+      she kept enough sagacity to avoid the tree-trunks, she could not prevent
+      her riders from striking the great branches which overhung the road at the
+      height of their heads and caused them great danger. In one of these
+      collisions Germain lost his hat, and only recovered it after much
+      difficulty. Petit-Pierre had fallen asleep, and, lying like a log in his
+      father's arms, hampered him so that he could no longer hold up nor direct
+      the horse.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I believe we are bewitched,&rdquo; exclaimed Germain, stopping; &ldquo;for the wood
+      is not large enough to get lost in, if a man is not drunk, and here we
+      have been turning round and round for two hours at least, without finding
+      a way out. The gray has but one idea in her head, and that is to get home.
+      It is she who is deceiving me. If we wish to go home, we have only to give
+      her the bit. But when we are perhaps but two steps from our journey's end,
+      it would be foolish to give up and return such a long road; and yet I am
+      at a loss what to do. I cant see sky or earth, and I am afraid that the
+      child will catch the fever if we remain in this cursed fog, or that he
+      will be crushed beneath our weight if the horse falls forward.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;We must not persist longer,&rdquo; said little Marie. &ldquo;Let 's dismount,
+      Germain. Give me the child; I can carry him perfectly well, and I know
+      better than you how to keep the cloak from falling open and leaving him
+      exposed. You lead the mare by her bridle. Perhaps we shall see more
+      clearly when we are nearer the ground.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      This precaution was of service only in saving them from a fall, for the
+      fog hung low and seemed to stick to the damp earth.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Their advance was painfully slow, and they were soon so weary that they
+      halted when they reached a dry spot beneath the great oaks.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Little Marie was in a violent sweat, but she uttered not a word of
+      complaint, nor did she worry about anything. Thinking only of the child,
+      she sat down on the sand and laid it upon her knees, while Germain
+      explored the neighborhood, after having fastened the gray's reins to the
+      branch of a tree.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But the gray was very dissatisfied with the journey. She reared suddenly,
+      broke the reins loose, burst her girths, and giving, by way of receipt,
+      half a dozen kicks higher than her head, she started across the clearing,
+      showing very plainly that she needed no one to show her the way home.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well, here we are afoot,&rdquo; said Germain, after a vain attempt to catch the
+      horse, &ldquo;and it would do us no good now if we were on the good road, for we
+      should have to ford the river on foot, and since these paths are filled
+      with water, we may be sure that the meadow is wholly submerged. We don't
+      know the other routes. We must wait until this fog clears. It can't last
+      more than an hour or two; as soon as we can see clearly, we shall look
+      about for a house, the first we come to near the edge of the wood. But for
+      the present we can't stir from here. There is a ditch and a pond over
+      there. Heaven knows what is in front of us, and what is behind us is more
+      than I can say now, for I have forgotten which way we came.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0008" id="linklink2H_4_0008">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      VII &mdash; Underneath the Big Oaks
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;WELL, we must be patient, Germain,&rdquo; said little Marie. &ldquo;We are not badly
+      off on this little hillock. The rain does not pierce the leaves of these
+      big oaks, and we can light a fire, for I can feel old stumps which stir
+      readily and are dry enough to burn. You have a light, Germain, have you
+      not? You were smoking your pipe a few minutes ago.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I did have; my tinderbox was in my bag on the saddle with the game that I
+      was bringing to my bride that is to be, but that devilish mare has run
+      away with everything, even with my cloak, which she will lose and tear to
+      bits on every branch she comes to.&rdquo; &ldquo;No, no, Germain; saddle and cloak and
+      bag are all there on the ground at your feet. The gray burst her girths,
+      and threw off everything as she ran away.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That's true, thank God,&rdquo; exclaimed the laborer; &ldquo;if we can grope about
+      and find a little dead wood, we shall be able to dry ourselves and get
+      warm.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That 's not difficult,&rdquo; said little Marie; &ldquo;dead wood always cracks when
+      you step on it. But will you give me the saddle?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What do you want of it?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;To make a bed for the child. No, not that way. Upside down. He will not
+      roll off into the hollow, and it is still very warm from the horse's back.
+      Prop it up all around with the stones that you see there.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I can't see a stone; you must have cat's eyes.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;There, it is all done, Germain. Hand me your cloak so that you can wrap
+      up his little feet, and throw my cape over his body. Just see if he is not
+      as comfortable as though he were in his own bed, and feel how warm he is.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You certainly know how to take care of children, Marie.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I need not be a witch to do that; now get your tinderbox from your bag,
+      and I will arrange the wood.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;This wood will never catch fire; it is too damp.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are always doubting, Germain. Don't you remember when you were a
+      shepherd, and made big fires in the fields right in the midst of the
+      rain?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, that is a knack that belongs to children who take care of sheep; but
+      I was made to drive the oxen as soon as I could walk.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That is what has made your arms strong and your hands quick! Here, the
+      fire is built; you shall see whether it does not burn. Give me the light
+      and a handful of dry ferns. That is all right Now blow; you are not
+      consumptive, are you?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not that I know of,&rdquo; said Germain, blowing like a smith's bellows. In an
+      instant the flame leaped up, and throwing out a red glare, it rose finally
+      in pale blue jets under the oak branches, battling with the fog, and
+      gradually drying the atmosphere for ten feet around.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Now I am going to sit by the child, so that the sparks may not fall on
+      him,&rdquo; said the young girl. &ldquo;Pile on the wood and stir up the fire,
+      Germain; we shall not catch cold nor fever here, I will answer for it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Upon my word, you are a clever girl,&rdquo; said Germain; &ldquo;and you know how to
+      make a fire like a little fairy of the night. I feel quite revived, and my
+      courage has come back again; for with my legs drenched up to the knees,
+      and with the thought of staying this way till daylight, I was in a very
+      bad temper just now.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And when people are in a bad temper they don't think of anything,&rdquo;
+       answered little Marie.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And are you never bad-tempered?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, never; what is the good of it?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, of course, there is no good; but how can you help it when you have
+      troubles? Yet Heaven knows that you have not lacked them, my little girl;
+      for you have not always been happy.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is true that my mother and I have suffered. We have had sorrows, but
+      we have never lost heart.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I should never lose heart, no matter how hard my work was,&rdquo; said Germain,
+      &ldquo;but poverty would make me very sad; for I have never wanted for anything.
+      My wife made me rich, and I am rich still; I shall be so as long as I work
+      on the farm; and that will be always, I hope. But everybody must suffer
+      his share! I have suffered in another way.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes; you have lost your wife. That is very sad.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Is n't it?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh! Germain, I have wept for her many a time. She was so very kind! But
+      don't let us talk about her longer, for I shall burst out crying. All my
+      troubles are ready to come back to me to-day.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is true, she loved you dearly, little Marie. She used to make a great
+      deal of you and your mother. Are you crying? Come, my girl, I don't want
+      to cry....&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But you are crying, Germain! You are crying as hard as I. Why should a
+      man be ashamed to weep for his wife? Don't let me trouble you. That sorrow
+      is mine as well as yours.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You have a kind heart, Marie, and it does me good to weep with you. Put
+      your feet nearer the fire; your skirts are all soaked, too, poor little
+      girl. I am going to take your place by the boy. You move nearer the fire.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am hot enough,&rdquo; said Marie; &ldquo;and if you wish to sit down, take a corner
+      of the cloak. I am perfectly comfortable.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;The truth is that it is not so bad here,&rdquo; said Germain, as he sat down
+      beside her. &ldquo;Only I feel very hungry again. It is almost nine o'clock, and
+      I have had such hard work in walking over these vile roads that I feel
+      quite tired out. Are you not hungry, too, little Marie?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I?&mdash;not at all. I am not accustomed like you to four meals a day,
+      and I have been to bed so often without my supper that once more does not
+      trouble me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;A woman like you is very convenient; she costs nothing,&rdquo; said Germain,
+      smiling.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am not a woman,&rdquo; exclaimed Marie, naïvely, without perceiving the
+      direction the husbandman's ideas had taken. &ldquo;Are you dreaming?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, I believe I must be dreaming,&rdquo; answered Germain. &ldquo;Perhaps hunger is
+      making my mind wander.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;How greedy you are,&rdquo; answered she, brightening in her turn. &ldquo;Well, if you
+      can't live five or six hours without eating, have you not game in your bag
+      and fire to cook it?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;By Jove, that's a good idea! But how about the present to my future
+      father-in-law?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You have six partridges and a hare! I suppose you do not need all of them
+      to satisfy your appetite.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But how can we cook them without a spit or andirons. They will be burned
+      to a cinder!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not at all,&rdquo; said little Marie; &ldquo;I warrant that I can cook them for you
+      under the cinders without a taste of smoke. Have you never caught larks in
+      the fields, and cooked them between two stones? Oh! that is true&mdash;I
+      keep forgetting that you have never been a shepherd. Come, pluck the
+      partridge. Not so hard! You will tear the skin.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You might be plucking the other to show me how!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then you wish to eat two? What an ogre you are! They are all plucked. I
+      am going to cook them.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You would make a perfect little sutler's girl, Marie, but unhappily you
+      have no canteen, and I shall have to drink water from this pool!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You would like some wine, would you not? Possibly you might prefer
+      coffee. You imagine yourself under the trees at the fair. Call out the
+      host. Some wine for the good husbandman of Belair!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You little witch, you are making fun of me! Would not you drink some wine
+      if you had it?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I? At Mother Rebec's, with you to-night, I drank some for the second time
+      in my life. But if you are very good, I shall give you a bottle almost
+      full, and excellent too.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What? Marie, I verily believe you are a witch!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Were you not foolish enough to ask for two bottles of wine at the inn?
+      You and your boy drank one, and the other you set before me. I hardly
+      drank three drops, yet you paid for both without looking.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What then?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why, I put the full one in my basket, because I thought that you or your
+      child would be thirsty on the journey. And here it is.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are the most thoughtful girl I have ever met. Although the poor child
+      was crying when we left the inn, that did not prevent her from thinking of
+      others more than of herself. Little Marie, the man who marries you will be
+      no fool.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I hope not, for I am not fond of fools. Come, eat up your partridges;
+      they are done to a turn; and for want of bread, you must be satisfied with
+      chestnuts.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Where the deuce did you find chestnuts, too?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is extraordinary! All along the road I picked them off the branches as
+      we went along, and filled my pockets.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And are they cooked, too?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Where would my wits have been had I not had sense enough to put the
+      chestnuts in the fire as soon as it was lighted? That is the way we always
+      do in the fields.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;So we are going to take supper together, little Marie. I want to drink
+      your health and wish you a good husband, just the sort of a man that will
+      suit you. Tell me what kind you want.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I should find that very difficult, Germain, for I have not thought about
+      it yet.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What, not at all? Never?&rdquo; said Germain, as he began to eat with a
+      laborer's appetite, yet stopping to cut off the more tender morsels for
+      his companion, who persisted in refusing them and contented herself with a
+      few chestnuts.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Tell me, little Marie,&rdquo; he went on, seeing that she had no intention of
+      answering him, &ldquo;have you never thought of marrying? Yet you are old
+      enough?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Perhaps,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;but I am too poor. I need at least a hundred crowns
+      to marry, and I must work five or six years to scrape them together.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Poor girl, I wish Father Maurice were willing to give me a hundred crowns
+      to make you a present of.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Thank you kindly, Germain. What do you suppose people would say of me?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What do you wish them to say of you? They know very well that I am too
+      old to marry you. They would never believe that I&mdash;that you&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Look, Germain, your child is waking up,&rdquo; said little Marie.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0009" id="linklink2H_4_0009">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      VIII &mdash; The Evening Prayer
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      PETIT-PIERRE had raised his head and was looking about him with a
+      thoughtful air.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, that is the way he always does, whenever he hears the sound of
+      eating,&rdquo; said Germain. &ldquo;The explosion of a cannon would not rouse him, but
+      if you work your jaws near him, he opens his eyes at once.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You must have been just like him at his age,&rdquo; said little Marie, with a
+      sly smile. &ldquo;See! my Petit-Pierre, you are looking for your canopy.
+      To-night it is made all of green, my child; but your father eats his
+      supper none the less. Do you wish to sup with him? I have not eaten your
+      share; I thought that you might claim it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Marie, I wish you to eat,&rdquo; cried the husbandman; &ldquo;I shall not touch
+      another morsel. I am a greedy glutton. You are depriving yourself for our
+      sake. It is not fair. I am ashamed. It takes away all my appetite. I will
+      not have my son eat his supper unless you take some too.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Leave us alone,&rdquo; said little Marie; &ldquo;you have not the key to our
+      appetites. Mine is tight shut to-day, but your Pierre's is as wide open as
+      a little wolfs. Just see how he seizes his food. He will be a strong
+      workman too, some day!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      In truth, Petit-Pierre showed very soon whose son he was, and though
+      scarcely awake and wholly at a loss to know where he was and how he had
+      come there, he began to eat ravenously. As soon as his hunger was
+      appeased, feeling excited as children do who break loose from their wonted
+      habits, he had more wit, more curiosity, and more good sense than usual.
+      He made them explain to him where he was, and when he found that he was in
+      the midst of a forest, he grew a little frightened.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Are there wicked beasts in this forest?&rdquo; he demanded of his father.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, none at all. Don't be afraid.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then you told a story when you said that if I went with you into the
+      great forest, the wolves would carry me off.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Just see this logician,&rdquo; said Germain, embarrassed.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He is right,&rdquo; replied little Marie. &ldquo;That is what you told him. He has a
+      good memory, and has not forgotten. But, little Pierre, you must learn
+      that your father never tells a story. We passed through the big forest
+      whilst you were sleeping, and now we are in the small forest where there
+      are no wicked beasts.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Is the little forest very far away from the big one?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Far enough; besides, the wolves never go out of the big forest. And then,
+      if some of them should come here, your father would kill them.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And you too, little Marie?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, we, too, for you would help also, my Pierre. You are not frightened,
+      are you? You would beat them soundly?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, indeed, I would,&rdquo; said the child, proudly, as he struck a heroic
+      attitude; &ldquo;we would kill them.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;There is nobody like you for talking to children and for making them
+      listen to reason,&rdquo; said Germain to little Marie. &ldquo;To be sure, it is not
+      long ago since you were a small child yourself, and you have not forgotten
+      what your mother used to say to you. I believe that the younger one is,
+      the better one gets on with children. I am very much afraid that a woman
+      of thirty who does not yet know what it is to be a mother, would find it
+      hard to prattle to children and reason with them.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why, Germain? I don't know why you have such a bad idea of this woman;
+      you will change your mind.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;The devil take the woman!&rdquo; exclaimed Germain. &ldquo;I wish I were going away
+      from her forever. What do I want of a wife whom I don't know?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Little father,&rdquo; said the child, &ldquo;why is it that you speak so much of your
+      wife to-day, since she is dead?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then you have not forgotten your poor, dear mother?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No; for I saw her placed in a beautiful box of white wood, and my
+      grandmother led me up to her to kiss her and say good-by. She was very
+      white and very stiff, and every evening my aunt made me pray God that she
+      might go to him in Heaven and be warm. Do you think that she is there
+      now?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I hope so, my child; but you must always pray. It shows your mother that
+      you love her.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am going to say my prayers,&rdquo; answered the boy. &ldquo;I forgot them to-night.
+      But I can't say them all alone, for I always forget something. Little
+      Marie must help me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, my Pierre, I will help you,&rdquo; said the young girl. &ldquo;Come and kneel
+      down in my lap.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The child knelt down on the girl's skirt. He clasped his little hands and
+      began to say his prayers, at first with great care and earnestness, for he
+      knew the beginning very well, then slowly and with more hesitation, and
+      finally repeating word by word after Marie, when he came to that place in
+      his prayer where sleep overtook him so invariably that he had never been
+      able to learn the end. This time again the effort of close attention and
+      the monotony of his own accent produced their wonted effect. He pronounced
+      the last syllables with great difficulty, and only after they were thrice
+      repeated.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      His head grew heavy and fell on Marie's breast; his hands unclasped,
+      divided, and fell open on his knees. By the light of the camp-fire,
+      Germain watched his little darling hushed at the heart of the young girl,
+      who, as she held him in her arms and warmed his fair hair with her sweet
+      breath, had herself fallen into a holy reverie, and prayed in quiet for
+      the soul of Catherine.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain was touched. He tried to express to little Marie the grateful
+      esteem which he felt for her, but he could find no fitting words.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He approached her to kiss his son, whom she held close to her breast, and
+      he could scarcely raise his lips from little Pierre's brow.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You kiss too hard,&rdquo; said Marie, gently pushing away the husbandman's
+      head. &ldquo;You will wake him. Let me put him back to bed, for the boy has left
+      us already for dreams of paradise.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The child allowed Marie to lay him down, but feeling the goatskin on the
+      saddle, he asked if he were on the gray. Then opening his big blue eyes,
+      and keeping them fixed on the branches for a minute, he seemed to be
+      dreaming, wide-awake as he was, or to be struck with an idea which had
+      slipped his mind during the daytime, and only assumed a distinct form at
+      the approach of sleep.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Little father,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;if you wish to give me a new mother, I hope it
+      will be little Marie.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      And without waiting for an answer, he closed his eyes and slept.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0010" id="linklink2H_4_0010">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      IX &mdash; Despite the Cold
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      LITTLE MARIE seemed to give no more heed to the child's odd words than to
+      regard them as a proof of friendship. She wrapped him up with care,
+      stirred the fire, and as the fog resting on the neighboring pool gave no
+      sign of lifting, she advised Germain to lie near the fire and take a nap.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I see that you are sleepy already,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;for you don't say a word
+      and you gaze into the fire, just as your little boy was doing.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is you who must sleep,&rdquo; answered the husbandman, &ldquo;and I will take care
+      of both of you, for I have never felt less sleepy than I do now. I have
+      fifty things to think of.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Fifty is a great many,&rdquo; said the little girl, with a mocking accent.
+      &ldquo;There are lots of people who would be delighted to have one.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well, if I am too stupid to have fifty, I have one, at least, which has
+      not left me for the past hour.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And I shall tell it to you as well as I told you those you thought of
+      before.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, do tell me if you know, Marie. Tell me yourself. I shall be glad to
+      hear.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;An hour ago,&rdquo; she answered, &ldquo;your idea was to eat&mdash;and now it is to
+      sleep.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Marie, I am only an ox-driver, but, upon my word, you take me for an ox.
+      You are very perverse, and it is easy to see that you do not care to talk
+      to me, so go to sleep. That will be better than to pick flaws in a man who
+      is out of sorts.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;If you wish to talk, let 's talk,&rdquo; said the girl, half reclining near the
+      child and resting her head against the saddle. &ldquo;You torment yourself,
+      Germain, and you do not show much courage for a man. What would n't I say
+      if I did n't do my best to fight my own troubles?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, that's very true, and that 's just what I am thinking of, my poor
+      child. You are going to live, away from your friends, in a horrid country
+      full of moors and fens, where you will catch the autumn fevers. Sheep do
+      not pay well there, and this is always discouraging for a shepherdess if
+      she means well. Then you will be surrounded by strangers who may not be
+      kind to you and will not know how much you are worth. It makes me more
+      sorry than I can tell you, and I have a great desire to take you home to
+      your mother instead of going on to Fourche.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You talk very kindly, but there is no reason for your misgivings, my poor
+      Germain. You ought not to lose heart on your friend's account, and instead
+      of showing me the dark side of my lot, you should show me the bright side,
+      as you did after lunch at Rebec's.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What can I do? That 's the way it appeared to me then, and now my ideas
+      are changed. It is best for you to take a husband.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That cannot be, Germain, and as it is out of the question, I think no
+      more about it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yet such a thing might happen. Perhaps if you told me what kind of a man
+      you want, I might imagine somebody.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Imagining is not finding. For myself, I never imagine, for it does no
+      good.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are not looking for a rich man?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Certainly not, for I am as poor as Job.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But if he were comfortably off, you would n't be sorry to have a good
+      house, and good food, and good clothes, and to live with an honest family
+      who would allow you to help your mother.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, yes indeed! It is my own wish to help my mother.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And if this man were to turn up, you would not be too hard to please,
+      even if he were not so very young.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Ah! There you must excuse me, Germain. That is just the point I insist
+      on. I could never love an old man.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;An old man, of course not; but a man of my age, for example!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Your age is too old for me, Germain. I should like Bastien's age, though
+      Bastien is not so good-looking as you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Should you rather have Bastien, the swineherd?&rdquo; said Germain,
+      indignantly. &ldquo;A fellow with eyes shaped like those of the pigs he drives!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I could excuse his eyes, because he is eighteen.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain felt terribly jealous.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;it's clear that you want Bastien, but, none the less, it
+      's a queer idea.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, that would be a queer idea,&rdquo; answered little Marie, bursting into
+      shouts of laughter, &ldquo;and he would make a queer husband. You could gull him
+      to your heart's content. For instance, the other day, I had picked up a
+      tomato in the curate's garden. I told him that it was a fine, red apple,
+      and he bit into it like a glutton. If you had only seen what a face he
+      made. Heavens! how ugly he was!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then you don't love him, since you are making fun of him.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That would n't be a reason. But I don't like him. He is unkind to his
+      little sister, and he is dirty.&rdquo; &ldquo;Don't you care for anybody else?&rdquo; &ldquo;How
+      does that concern you, Germain?&rdquo; &ldquo;Not at all, except that it gives me
+      something to talk about. I see very well, little girl, that you have a
+      sweetheart in your mind already.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, Germain, you 're wrong. I have no sweetheart yet. Perhaps one may
+      come later, but since I cannot marry until I have something laid by, I am
+      destined to marry late in life and with an old man.&rdquo; &ldquo;Then take an old man
+      without delay.&rdquo; &ldquo;No. When I am no longer young, I shall not care; for the
+      present, it is different.&rdquo; &ldquo;I see that I displease you, Marie; that's
+      clear enough,&rdquo; said Germain, impatiently, and without stopping to weigh
+      his words.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Little Marie did not answer. Germain bent over her. She was sleeping. She
+      had fallen back, overcome, stricken down, as it were, by slumber, as
+      children are who sleep before they cease to babble.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain was glad that she had not caught his last words. He felt that they
+      were unwise, and he turned his back to distract his attention and change
+      his thoughts.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was all in vain. He could neither sleep nor think of anything except
+      the words he had just spoken. He walked about the fire twenty times; he
+      moved away; he came back. At last, feeling himself tremble as though he
+      had swallowed gunpowder, he leaned against the tree which sheltered the
+      two children, and watched them as they slept.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I know not how it is,&rdquo; thought he; &ldquo;I have never noticed that little
+      Marie is the prettiest girl in the countryside. She has not much color,
+      but her little face is fresh as a wild rose. What a charming mouth she
+      has, and how pretty her little nose is! She is not large for her age, but
+      she is formed like a little quail and is as light as a bird. I cannot
+      understand why they made so much fuss at home over a big, fat woman with a
+      bright red face. My wife was rather slender and pale, and she pleased me
+      more than any one else. This girl is very frail, but she is healthy, and
+      she is pretty to watch as a white kid. And then she has such a gentle,
+      frank expression. You can read her good heart in her eyes even though they
+      are closed in sleep. As to wit, I must confess she has more than ever my
+      dear Catherine had, and she would never become wearisome. She is gay,
+      wise, industrious, loving, and she is amusing. I don't know what more I
+      could wish for....
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But what is the use of thinking of all this?&rdquo; Germain went on, trying to
+      look in another direction. &ldquo;My father-in-law would not hear of it, and all
+      the family would think me mad! Besides, she would not have me herself,
+      poor child! She thinks me too old; she told me so. She is unselfish, and
+      does not mind poverty and worry, wearing old clothes, and suffering from
+      hunger for two or three months every year, so long as she can satisfy her
+      heart some day and give herself to the man she loves. She is right. I
+      should do the same in her place, and even now, if I had my own way,
+      instead of marrying a wife whom I don't care for, I would choose a girl
+      after my own heart.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The more Germain tried to compose himself by reasoning, the further he was
+      from succeeding. He walked away a dozen steps, to lose himself in the fog;
+      then, all of a sudden, he found himself on his knees beside the two
+      sleeping children. Once he wished to kiss Petit-Pierre, who had one arm
+      about Marie's neck, and made such a mistake that Marie felt a breath, hot
+      as fire, cross her lips, and awaking, looked about her with a bewildered
+      expression, totally ignorant of all that was passing within his mind.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I did n't see you, my poor children,&rdquo; said Germain, retreating rapidly.
+      &ldquo;I almost stumbled over you and hurt you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Little Marie was so innocent that she believed him, and fell asleep again.
+      Germain walked to the opposite side of the fire, and swore to God that he
+      would not stir until she had waked. He kept his word, but not without a
+      struggle. He thought that he would go mad.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At length, toward midnight, the fog lifted, and Germain could see the
+      stars shining through the trees. The moon freed herself from the mist
+      which had hidden her, and began to sow her diamonds over the damp moss.
+      The trunks of the oak-trees remained in impressive darkness, but beyond,
+      the white branches of the birch-trees seemed a long line of phantoms in
+      their shrouds. The fire cast its reflection in the pool; and the frogs,
+      growing accustomed to the light, hazarded a few shrill and uneasy notes;
+      the rugged branches of the old trees, bristling with dim-colored lichens,
+      crossed and intertwined themselves, like great gaunt arms, above the
+      travelers' heads. It was a lovely spot, but so lonely and so sad that
+      Germain, unable to endure it more, began to sing and throw stones into the
+      water to forget the dread weariness of solitude. He was anxious also to
+      wake little Marie, and when he saw her rise and look about at the weather,
+      he proposed that they start on their journey.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;In two hours,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;the approach of morning will chill the air so
+      that we can't stay here in spite of our fire. Now we can see our way, and
+      we shall soon find a house which will open its doors to us, or at least a
+      barn where we can pass the rest of the night under shelter.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Marie had no will of her own, and although she was longing to sleep, she
+      made ready to follow Germain. The husbandman took his boy in his arms
+      without awaking him, and beckoned Marie to come nearer, in order to cover
+      her with his cloak. For she would not take her own mantle, which was
+      wrapped about the child.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When he felt the young girl so close to him, Germain, who for a time had
+      succeeded in distracting his mind and raising his spirits, began to lose
+      his head once more. Two or three times he strode ahead abruptly, leaving
+      her to walk alone. Then seeing how hard it was for her to follow, he
+      waited, drew her quickly to his side, and pressed her so tight that she
+      was surprised, and even angry, though she dared not say so.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As they knew not the direction whence they had come, they had no idea of
+      that in which they were going. So they crossed the wood once more, and
+      found themselves afresh before the lonely moor. Then they retraced their
+      steps, and after much turning and twisting they spied a light across the
+      branches.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Good enough! Here 's a house,&rdquo; exclaimed Germain. &ldquo;And the people are
+      already astir, for the fire is lighted. It must be very late.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      It was no house, but the camp-fire, which they had covered before they
+      left, and which had sprung up in the breeze.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      They had tramped for two hours, only to find themselves at the very place
+      from which they had started.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0011" id="linklink2H_4_0011">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      X &mdash; Beneath the Stars
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;THIS time I give up,&rdquo; said Germain, stamping I his foot. &ldquo;We are
+      bewitched, that is certain, and we shall not get away from here before
+      broad day. The devil is in this place!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well, it's of no use to get angry,&rdquo; said Marie. &ldquo;We must take what is
+      given us. Let us make a big fire. The child is so well wrapped up that he
+      is in no danger, and we shall not die from a single night out of doors.
+      Where have you hidden the saddle, Germain? Right in the midst of the
+      holly-bushes,&mdash;what a goose you are! It 's very convenient to get it
+      from there!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Stop, child; hold the boy while I pull his bed from the thorns. I did n't
+      want you to scratch your hands.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It 's all done. Here 's the bed, and a few scratches are not saber-cuts,&rdquo;
+       replied the brave girl.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She proceeded to put the child to bed again, and Petit-Pierre was so sound
+      asleep this time that he knew nothing of his last journey. Germain piled
+      so much wood on the fire that the forest all about glowed with the light.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Little Marie had come to the end of her powers, and although she did not
+      complain, her legs would support her no longer. She was white, and her
+      teeth chattered with cold and weakness. Germain took her in his arms to
+      warm her. The uneasiness, the compassion, the tenderness of movement he
+      could not repress, took possession of his heart and stilled his senses. As
+      by a miracle his tongue was loosened, and every feeling of shame vanished.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Marie,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I like you, and I am very sorry that you don't like me.
+      If you would take me for your husband, there are no fathers, nor family,
+      nor neighbors, nor arguments which could prevent me from giving myself to
+      you. I know how happy you would make my children, and that you would teach
+      them to love the memory of their mother, and with a quiet conscience I
+      could satisfy the wishes of my heart. I have always been fond of you, and
+      now I love you so well that were you to ask me to spend all my life in
+      doing your pleasure, I would swear to do it on the instant. Please think
+      how much I love you, and try to forget my age. Think that it is a wrong
+      notion to believe that a man of thirty is old. Besides, I am but
+      twenty-eight. A young girl is afraid that people will talk about her if
+      she takes a man ten or twelve years older than she, simply because that is
+      not the custom in our country, but I have heard say that in other
+      countries people don't look at it in this light, and that they had rather
+      allow a sensible man of approved courage to support a young girl, than
+      trust her to a mere boy, who may go astray, and, from the honest fellow
+      they thought him, turn into a good-for-nothing. And then years don't
+      always make age. That depends on the health and strength a person has.
+      When a man is used up by overwork and poverty, or by a bad life, he is old
+      before twenty-five. While I&mdash;but Marie, you are not listening....&rdquo;
+       &ldquo;Yes I am, Germain; I hear you perfectly,&rdquo; answered little Marie, &ldquo;but I
+      am thinking over what my mother used to tell me so often: that a woman of
+      sixty is to be pitied greatly when her husband is seventy or seventy-five
+      and can no longer work to support her. He grows feeble, and it becomes her
+      duty to nurse him at the very age when she begins to feel great need of
+      care and rest herself, and so it is that the end comes in a garret.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Parents do well to say so, I admit,&rdquo; answered Germain, &ldquo;but then they
+      would sacrifice all their youth, the best years of their life, to
+      calculating what will become of them at the age when a person is no longer
+      good for anything, and when it is a matter of indifference which way death
+      comes. But I am in no danger of starving in my old age. I am even going to
+      lay by something, since I live with my wife's parents and spend nothing.
+      And then, you see, I shall love you so well that I can never grow old.
+      They say that when a man is happy he keeps sound, and I know well that in
+      love for you, I am younger than Bastien; for he does not love you; he is
+      too stupid, too much of a child to understand how pretty and how good you
+      are, and how you were made for people to court. Do not hate me, Marie. I
+      am not a bad man. I made my Catherine happy, and on her death-bed she
+      swore before God that she had had only happiness of me, and she asked me
+      to marry again. Her spirit must have spoken to her child to-night. Did you
+      not hear the words he said? How his little lips quivered as his eyes
+      stared upward, watching something that we could not see! He was surely
+      looking at his mother, and it was she who made him say that he wished you
+      to take her place.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Germain,&rdquo; answered Marie, amazed and yet thoughtful, &ldquo;you speak frankly,
+      and everything that you say is true. I am sure that I should do well to
+      love you if it did not displease your parents too much. But what can I do?
+      My heart does not speak for you. I am very fond of you, but though your
+      age does not make you ugly, it makes me afraid. It seems as if you were
+      some such relation to me, as an uncle or a godfather, that I must be
+      respectful toward you, and that there might be moments when you would
+      treat me like a little girl rather than like your wife and your equal. And
+      perhaps my friends would make fun of me, and although it would be silly to
+      give heed to that, I think that I should be a little sad on my
+      wedding-day.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Those are but childish reasons, Marie; you speak like a child.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, that is true; I am a child,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and it is on that account I
+      am afraid of too sensible a man. You must see that I am too young for you,
+      since you just found fault with me for speaking foolishly. I can't have
+      more sense than my age allows.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;O Heavens! How unlucky I am to be so clumsy and to express so ill what I
+      think!&rdquo; cried Germain. &ldquo;Marie, you don't love me. That is the long and
+      short of it. You find me too simple and too dull. If you loved me at all,
+      you would not see my faults so clearly. But you do not love me. That is
+      the whole story.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That is not my fault,&rdquo; answered she, a little hurt that he was speaking
+      with less tenderness. &ldquo;I am doing my best to hear you, but the more I try
+      the less I can get it into my head that we ought to be husband and wife.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain did not answer. His head dropped into his hands, and little Marie
+      could not tell whether he wept or sulked or was fast asleep. She felt
+      uneasy when she saw him so cast down, and could not guess what was passing
+      in his mind. But she dared not speak to him more, and as she was too
+      astonished at what had passed to have any desire to sleep, she waited
+      impatiently for dawn, tending the fire with care and watching over the
+      child, whose existence Germain appeared to forget. Yet Germain was not
+      asleep. He did not mope over his lot. He made no plans to encourage
+      himself, nor schemes to entrap the girl. He suffered; he felt a great
+      weight of grief at his heart. He wished that he were dead. The world
+      seemed to turn against him, and if he could have wept at all, his tears
+      would have come in floods. But mingled with his sorrow there was a feeling
+      of anger against himself, and he felt choked, without the power or the
+      wish to complain.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When morning came, and the sounds of the country brought it to Germain's
+      senses, he lifted his head from his hands and rose. He saw that little
+      Marie had slept no more than he, but he knew no words in which to tell her
+      of his anxiety. He was very discouraged. Hiding the gray's saddle once
+      more in the thicket, he slung his sack over his shoulder and took his son
+      by the hand.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Now, Marie,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;we are going to try to end our journey. Do you
+      wish me to take you to Ormeaux?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Let us leave the woods together,&rdquo; answered she, &ldquo;and when we know where
+      we are, we shall separate, and go our different ways.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain did not answer. He felt hurt that the girl did not ask him to take
+      her as far as Ormeaux, and he did not notice that he had asked her in a
+      tone well fitted to provoke a refusal.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After a few hundred steps, they met a wood-cutter, who pointed out the
+      highroad, and told them that when they had crossed the plain, one must
+      turn to the right, the other to the left, to gain their different
+      destinations, which were so near together that the houses of Fourche were
+      in plain sight from the farm of Ormeaux, and <i>vice versa</i>.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When they had thanked him and passed on, the wood-cutter called them back
+      to ask whether they had not lost a horse.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I found a pretty gray mare in my yard, where perhaps a
+      wolf had driven her to seek refuge; my dogs barked the whole night long,
+      and at daybreak I saw the mare under my shed. She is there now. Come along
+      with me, and if you recognize her, you may take her.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      When Germain had given a description of the gray, and felt convinced that
+      it was really she, he started back to find his saddle. Little Marie
+      offered to take his child to Ormeaux, whither he might go to get him after
+      he had introduced himself at Fourche.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He is rather dirty after the night that we have passed,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I
+      will brush his clothes, wash his pretty face, and comb his hair, and when
+      he looks neat and clean, you can present him to your new family.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Who told you that I wish to go to Fourche?&rdquo; answered Germain, petulantly.
+      &ldquo;Perhaps I shall not go.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But truly, Germain, it is your duty to go there. You will go there,&rdquo;
+       replied the girl.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You seem very anxious to have me married off, so that you may be quite
+      sure that I shall not trouble you again?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Germain, you must not think of that any more. It is an idea which came to
+      you in the night, because this unfortunate mishap took away your spirits.
+      But now you must come to your senses. I promise you to forget everything
+      that you said to me, and not to breathe it to a soul.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, say what you wish. It is not my custom to deny what I have spoken.
+      What I told you was true and honest, and I shall not blush for it before
+      anybody.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, but if your wife were to know that just before you came you were
+      thinking of another woman, it would prejudice her against you. So take
+      care how you speak now. Don't look at me before everybody with such a rapt
+      expression. Think of Father Maurice, who relies on your obedience, and who
+      would be enraged at me if I were to turn you from his will. Good-by,
+      Germain. I take Petit-Pierre in order to force you to go to Fourche. He is
+      a pledge which I keep on your behalf.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;So you want to go with her?&rdquo; said the husbandman to his son, seeing that
+      the boy had clasped Marie's hands and was following her resolutely.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, father,&rdquo; answered the child, who had heard the conversation and
+      understood after his own fashion the words spoken so unguardedly before
+      him. &ldquo;I am going away with my dearest little Marie. You shall come to find
+      me when you have done marrying, but I wish Marie to be my little mother.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You see how much he wishes it,&rdquo; said Germain to the girl. &ldquo;Listen to me,
+      Petit-Pierre,&rdquo; he added. &ldquo;I wish her to be your mother and to stay with
+      you always. It is she who does not wish to. Try to make her grant you what
+      she has denied me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Don't be afraid, father, I shall make her say yes. Little Marie does
+      everything that I wish.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He walked away with the young girl. Germain stood alone, sadder and more
+      irresolute than ever.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0012" id="linklink2H_4_0012">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      XI &mdash; The Belle of the Village
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      AND after all, when he had brushed the dust of travel from his clothes and
+      from his horse's harness, when he had mounted the gray, and when he had
+      learned the road, he felt that there was no retreat and that he must
+      forget that anxious night as though it had been a dangerous dream.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He found Father Leonard seated on a trim bench of spinach-green. The six
+      stone steps leading up to the door showed that the house had a cellar. The
+      walls of the garden and of the hemp-field were plastered with lime and
+      sand. It was a handsome house, and might almost have been mistaken for the
+      dwelling of a bourgeois.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain's future father-in-law came forward to meet him, and having plied
+      him, for five minutes, with questions concerning his entire family, he
+      added that conventional phrase with which one passer-by addresses another
+      concerning the object of his journey: &ldquo;So you are taking a little trip in
+      this part of the country?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I have come to see you,&rdquo; replied the husbandman, &ldquo;to give you this little
+      present of game with my father's compliments, and to tell you from him
+      that you ought to know with what intentions I come to your house.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, ho!&rdquo; said Father Leonard, laughing and tapping his capacious stomach,
+      &ldquo;I see, I understand, I am with you, and,&rdquo; he added with a wink, &ldquo;you will
+      not be the only one to pay your court, young man. There are three already
+      in the house dancing attendance like you. I never turn anybody away, and I
+      should find it hard to say yes or no to any of them, for they are all good
+      matches. Yet, on account of Father Maurice and for the sake of the rich
+      fields you till, I hope that it may be you. But my daughter is of age and
+      mistress of her own affairs. She will do as she likes. Go in and introduce
+      yourself. I hope that you will draw the prize.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I beg your pardon,&rdquo; answered Germain, amazed to find himself an extra
+      when he had counted on being alone in the field. &ldquo;I was not aware that
+      your daughter was supplied already with suitors, and I did not come to
+      quarrel over her.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;If you supposed that because you were slow in coming, my daughter would
+      be left unprovided for, you were greatly mistaken, my son,&rdquo; replied Father
+      Leonard with unshaken good humor. &ldquo;Catherine has the wherewithal to
+      attract suitors, and her only difficulty lies in choosing. But come in;
+      don't lose heart. The woman is worth, a struggle.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      And pushing in Germain by the shoulders with boisterous gaiety, he called
+      to his daughter as they entered the house:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;So, Catherine, here is another!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      This cordial but unmannerly method of introduction to the widow, in the
+      presence of her other devotees, completed Germain's distress and
+      embarrassment. He felt the awkwardness of his position, and stood for a
+      few moments without daring to look upon the beauty and her court.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The Widow Guérin had a good figure and did not lack freshness, but her
+      expression and her dress displeased Germain the instant he saw her. She
+      had a bold, self-satisfied look, and her cap, edged with three lace
+      flounces, her silk apron, and her fichu of fine black lace were little in
+      accord with the staid and sober widow he had pictured to himself.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Her elaborate dress and forward manners inclined Germain to judge the
+      widow old and ugly, although she was certainly not either. He thought that
+      such finery and playful manners might well suit little Marie's years and
+      wit, but that the widow's fun was labored and over bold, and that she wore
+      her fine clothes in bad taste.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The three suitors were seated at a table loaded with wines and meats which
+      were spread out for their use throughout the Sunday morning; for Father
+      Leonard liked to show off his wealth, and the widow was not sorry to
+      display her pretty china and keep a table like a rich lady. Germain,
+      simple and unsuspecting as he was, watched everything with a penetrating
+      glance, and for the first time in his life he kept on the defensive when
+      he drank. Father Leonard obliged him to sit down with his rivals, and
+      taking a chair opposite he treated him with great politeness, and talked
+      to him rather than to the others.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The present of game, despite the breach Germain had made on his own
+      account, was still plenteous enough to produce its effect. The widow did
+      not look unaware of its presence, and the suitors cast disdainful glances
+      in its direction.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain felt ill at ease in this company, and did not eat heartily. Father
+      Leonard poked fun at him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You look very melancholy,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;and you are ill-using your glass.
+      You must not allow love to spoil your appetite, for a fasting lover can
+      make no such pretty speeches as he whose ideas are brightened with a drop
+      of wine.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain was mortified at being thought already in love, and the artificial
+      manner of the widow, who kept lowering her eyes with a smile as a woman
+      does who is sure of her calculations, made him long to protest against his
+      pretended surrender; but fearing to appear uncivil, he smiled and held his
+      peace.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He thought the widow's beaus, three bumpkins. They must have been rich for
+      her to admit of their pretensions. One was over forty, and fat as Father
+      Leonard; another had lost an eye, and drank like a sot. The third was a
+      young fellow, and nice-looking too; but he kept insisting on displaying
+      his wit, and would say things so silly that they were painful to hear. Yet
+      the widow laughed as though she admired all his foolishness, and made
+      small proof of her good taste thereby. At first Germain thought her
+      infatuated with him, but soon he perceived that he himself was especially
+      encouraged, and that they wished him to make fresh advances. For this
+      reason he felt an increasing stiffness and severity which he took no pains
+      to conceal.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The time came for mass, and they rose from table to go thither in company.
+      It was necessary to walk as far as Mers, a good half-league away, and
+      Germain was so tired that he longed to take a nap before they went; but he
+      was not in the habit of missing mass, and he started with the others.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The roads were filled with people, and the widow marched proudly along,
+      escorted by her three suitors, taking an arm, first of one and then of
+      another, and carrying her head high with an air of importance. She was
+      eager to display the fourth to the eyes of the passers-by; but Germain
+      felt so ridiculous to be dragged along in the train of a petticoat where
+      all the world might see, that he kept at a respectable distance, chatting
+      with Father Leonard, and succeeded in occupying his attention so well that
+      they did not look at all as if they belonged to the party.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0013" id="linklink2H_4_0013">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      XII &mdash; The Master
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      WHEN they reached the village, the widow halted to allow them to catch up.
+      She was bent upon making her entry with all her train; but Germain,
+      denying her this pleasure, deserted Father Leonard, and after conversing
+      with several acquaintances, he entered the church by another door. The
+      widow was vexed.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When mass was over, she made her appearance in triumph on the lawn, where
+      dancing was going on, and she began her dance with her three lovers in
+      turn. Germain watched her and saw that she danced well, but with
+      affectation.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;So, you don't ask my daughter?&rdquo; said Leonard, tapping him on the
+      shoulder. &ldquo;You are too easily frightened.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I have not danced since I lost my wife,&rdquo; answered the husbandman.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But now that you are looking for another, mourning 's over in heart as
+      well as in clothes.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That 's no reason, Father Leonard. Besides, I am too old and I don't care
+      for dancing.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Listen,&rdquo; said Father Leonard, drawing him toward a retired corner, &ldquo;when
+      you entered my house you were vexed to see the place already besieged, and
+      I see that you are very proud. But that is not reasonable, my boy. My
+      daughter is used to a great deal of attention, particularly since she left
+      off her mourning two years ago, and it is not her place to lead you on.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Has your daughter been thinking of marrying for two years already without
+      making her choice?&rdquo; asked Germain.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;She does n't wish to hurry, and she is right. Although she has lively
+      manners, and although you may not think that she reflects a great deal,
+      she is a woman of excellent common sense, and knows very well what she is
+      about.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It does not appear to me so,&rdquo; said Germain ingenuously, &ldquo;for she has
+      three suitors in her train, and if she knew her own mind, there are two of
+      them, at least, whom she would find superfluous and request to stay at
+      home.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why, Germain, you don't understand at all. She does n't wish the old man,
+      nor the blind man, nor the young man, I am quite certain; yet if she were
+      to turn them off, people would think that she wished to remain a widow,
+      and nobody else would come.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, I see. These three are used for a guide-post.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;As you like. What is the harm if they are satisfied?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Every man to his taste,&rdquo; said Germain.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I see that yours is different. Now supposing that you are chosen, then
+      they would leave the coast clear.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, supposing! and meanwhile how much time should I have to whistle?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That depends on your persuasive tongue, I suppose. Until now, my daughter
+      has always thought that she would pass the best part of her life while she
+      was being courted, and she is in no hurry to become the servant of one man
+      when she can order so many others about. So she will please herself as
+      long as the game amuses her; but if you please her more than the game, the
+      game will cease. Only you must not lose courage. Come back every Sunday,
+      dance with her, let her know that you are amongst her followers, and if
+      she finds you more agreeable and better bred than the others, some fine
+      day she will tell you so, no doubt.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Excuse me, Father Leonard. Your daughter has the right to do as she
+      pleases, and it is not my business to blame her. If I were in her place, I
+      should do differently. I should be more frank, and should not waste the
+      time of men who have, doubtless, something better to do than dancing
+      attendance on a woman who makes fun of them. Still, if that is what amuses
+      her and makes her happy, it is no affair of mine. Only there is one thing
+      I must tell you which is a little embarrassing, since you have mistaken my
+      intentions from the start, for you are so sure of what is not so, that you
+      have given me no chance to explain. You must know, then, that I did not
+      come here to ask for your daughter in marriage, but merely to buy a pair
+      of oxen which you are going to take to market next week, and which my
+      father-in-law thinks will suit him.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I understand, Germain,&rdquo; answered Leonard very calmly; &ldquo;you changed your
+      plans when you saw my daughter with her admirers. It is as you please. It
+      seems that what attracts some people repels others, and you are perfectly
+      welcome to withdraw, for you have not declared your intentions. If you
+      wish seriously to buy my cattle, come and see them in the pasture, and
+      whether we make a bargain or not, you will come back to dinner with us
+      before you return.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I don't wish to trouble you,&rdquo; answered Germain. &ldquo;Perhaps you have
+      something to do here. I myself am tired of watching the dancing and
+      standing idle. I will go to see your cattle, and I will soon join you at
+      your house.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Then Germain made his escape, and walked away toward the meadows where
+      Leonard had pointed out to him some of his cattle. It was true that Father
+      Maurice intended to buy, and Germain thought that if he were to bring home
+      a fine pair of oxen at a reasonable price, he might more easily receive a
+      pardon for wilfully relinquishing the purpose of his journey. He walked
+      rapidly, and soon found himself at some distance from Ormeaux. Then of a
+      sudden, he felt a desire to kiss his son and to see little Marie once
+      again, although he had lost all hope and even had chased away the thought
+      that he might some day owe his happiness to her. Everything that he had
+      heard and seen: this woman, flirtatious and vain; this father, at once
+      shrewd and short-sighted, encouraging his daughter in habits of pride and
+      untruth; this city luxury, which seemed to him a transgression against the
+      dignity of country manners; this time wasted in foolish, empty words; this
+      home so different from his own; and above all, that deep uneasiness which
+      comes to a laborer of the fields when he leaves his accustomed toil: all
+      the trouble and annoyance of the past few hours made Germain long to be
+      with his child and with his little neighbor. Even had he not been in love,
+      he would have sought her to divert his mind and raise his spirits to their
+      wonted level.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But he looked in vain over the neighboring meadows. He saw neither little
+      Marie nor little Pierre, and yet it was the hour when shepherds are in the
+      fields. There was a large flock in a pasture. He asked of a young boy who
+      tended them whether the sheep belonged to the farm of Ormeaux.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said the child.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Are you the shepherd? Do boys tend the flocks of the farm, amongst you?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, I am taking care of them to-day, because the shepherdess went away.
+      She was ill.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But have you not a new shepherdess, who came this morning?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, surely; but she, too, has gone already.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What! gone? Did she not have a child with her?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, a little boy who cried. They both went away after they had been here
+      two hours.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Went away! Where?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Where they came from, I suppose. I did n't ask them.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But why did they go away?&rdquo; asked Germain, growing more and more uneasy.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;How the deuce do I know?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Did they not agree about wages? Yet that must have been settled before.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I can tell you nothing about it I saw them come and go, nothing more.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain walked toward the farm and questioned the farmer. Nobody could
+      give him an explanation; but after speaking with the farmer, he felt sure
+      that the girl had gone without saying a word, and had taken the weeping
+      child with her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Can they have been ill-treating my son?&rdquo; cried Germain.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It was your son, then? How did he happen to be with the little girl?
+      Where do you come from, and what is your name?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain, seeing that after the fashion of the country they were answering
+      him with questions, stamped his foot impatiently, and asked to speak with
+      the master.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The master was away. Usually, he did not spend the whole day when he came
+      to the farm. He was on horseback, and he had ridden off to one of his
+      other farms.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But, honestly,&rdquo; said Germain, growing very anxious, &ldquo;can't you tell me
+      why this girl left?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The farmer and his wife exchanged an odd smile. Then the former answered
+      that he knew nothing, and that it was no business of his. All that Germain
+      could learn was that both girl and child had started off toward Fourche.
+      He rushed back to Fourche. The widow and her lovers were still away; so
+      was Father Leonard. The maid told him that a girl and a child had come to
+      ask for him, but that as she did not know them, she did not wish to let
+      them in, and had advised them to go to Mers.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And why did you refuse to let them in?&rdquo; said Germain, angrily. &ldquo;People
+      are very suspicious in this country, where nobody opens the door to a
+      neighbor.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But you see,&rdquo; answered the maid, &ldquo;in a house as rich as this, I must keep
+      my eyes open. When the master is away, I am responsible for everything,
+      and I cannot open the door to the first person that comes along.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is a bad custom,&rdquo; said Germain, &ldquo;and I had rather be poor than to live
+      in constant fear like that. Good-by to you, young woman, and good-by to
+      your vile country.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He made inquiries at the neighboring house. The shepherdess and child had
+      been seen. As the boy had left Belair suddenly, carelessly dressed, with
+      his blouse torn, and his little lambskin over his shoulders, and as little
+      Marie was necessarily poorly clad at all times, they had been taken for
+      beggars. People had offered them bread. The girl had accepted a crust for
+      the child, who was hungry, then she had walked away with him very quickly,
+      and had entered the forest.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain thought a minute, then he asked whether the farmer of Ormeaux had
+      not been at Fourche.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; they answered, &ldquo;he passed on horseback a few seconds after the
+      girl.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Was he chasing her?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, so you understand?&rdquo; answered the village publican, with a laugh.
+      &ldquo;Certain it is that he is the devil of a fellow for running after girls.
+      But I don't believe that he caught her; though, after all, if he had seen
+      her&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That is enough, thank you!&rdquo; And he flew rather than ran to Leonard's
+      stable. Throwing the saddle on the gray's back, he leaped upon it, and set
+      off at full gallop toward the wood of Chanteloube.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      His heart beat hard with fear and anger; the sweat poured down his
+      forehead; he spurred the mare till the blood came, though the gray needed
+      no pressing when she felt herself on the road to her stable.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0014" id="linklink2H_4_0014">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      XIII &mdash; The Old Woman
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      GERMAIN came soon to the spot where he had passed the night on the border
+      of the pool. The fire was smoking still. An old woman was gathering the
+      remnants of the wood little Marie had piled there. Germain stopped to
+      question her. She was deaf and mistook his inquiries.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, my son,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;this is the Devil's Pool. It is an evil spot,
+      and you must not approach it without throwing in three stones with your
+      left hand, while you cross yourself with the right. That drives away the
+      spirits. Otherwise trouble comes to those who go around it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am not asking about that,&rdquo; said Germain, moving nearer her, and
+      screaming at the top of his lungs. &ldquo;Have you seen a girl and a child
+      walking through the wood?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said the old woman, &ldquo;a little child was drowned there.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain shook from head to foot; but happily the hag added:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That happened a long time ago. In memory of the accident they raised a
+      handsome cross there. But one stormy night, the bad spirits threw it into
+      the water. You can still see one end of it. If anybody were unlucky enough
+      to pass the night here, he could never find his way out before daylight.
+      He must walk and walk, and though he went two hundred leagues into the
+      forest, he must always return to the same place.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The peasant's imagination was aroused in spite of himself, and the thought
+      of the evils that must come in order that the old woman's assertions might
+      be vindicated, took so firm a hold of his mind that he felt chilled
+      through and through. Hopeless of obtaining more news, he remounted, and
+      traversed the woods afresh, calling Pierre with all his might, whistling,
+      cracking his whip, and snapping the branches that the whole forest might
+      reëcho with the noise of his coming; then he listened for an answering
+      voice, but he heard no sound save the cowbells scattered through the
+      glades, and the wild cries of the swine as they fought over the acorns.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At length Germain heard behind him the noise of a horse following in his
+      traces, and a man of middle age, dark, sturdy, and dressed after the city
+      fashion, called to him to stop. Germain had never seen the farmer of
+      Ormeaux, but his instinctive rage told him at once that this was the man.
+      He turned, and eyeing him from head to foot, waited for him to speak.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Have not you seen a young girl of fifteen or sixteen go by with a small
+      boy?&rdquo; asked the farmer, with an assumed air of indifference, although he
+      was evidently ill at ease.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What do you want of her?&rdquo; answered Germain, taking no pains to conceal
+      his anger.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I might tell you that that is none of your business, my friend. But as I
+      have no reasons for secrecy, I shall tell you that she is a shepherdess
+      whom I engaged for a year, before I knew her. When I saw her, she looked
+      too young and frail to work on the farm. I thanked her, but I wished to
+      pay the expenses of her short journey, and while my back was turned, she
+      went off in a huff. She was in such a hurry that she forgot even some of
+      her belongings and her purse, which has certainly not much in it, probably
+      but a few pennies; but since I was going in this direction, I hoped to
+      meet her, and give her back the things which she left behind, as well as
+      what I owe her.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain had too honest a heart not to pause at hearing a story which,
+      however unlikely, was not impossible. He fastened his penetrating gaze on
+      the farmer, who submitted to the examination with a plentiful supply of
+      impudence or of good faith.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I wish to get at the bottom of this matter,&rdquo; said Germain; &ldquo;and,&rdquo;
+       continued he, suppressing his indignation, &ldquo;the girl lives in my village.
+      I know her. She can't be far away. Let 's ride on together; we shall find
+      her, no doubt.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are right,&rdquo; said the farmer; &ldquo;let's move on; but if we do not find
+      her before we reach the end of this road, I shall give up, for I must turn
+      off toward Ardentes.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, oh!&rdquo; thought the peasant, &ldquo;I shall not part with you, even if I have
+      to follow you around the 'Devil's Pool for twenty-four hours.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Stop,&rdquo; said Germain suddenly, fixing his eyes on a clump of broom which
+      waved in a peculiar manner. &ldquo;Halloa! halloa! Petit Pierre, is that you, my
+      child?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The boy recognized his father's voice, and came out from the broom leaping
+      like a young deer; but when he saw Germain in company with the farmer, he
+      stopped dismayed, and stood irresolute. &ldquo;Come, my Pierre, come. It is I,&rdquo;
+       cried the husbandman, as he leaped from his horse and ran toward his boy
+      to take him in his arms; &ldquo;and where is little Marie?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;She is hiding there, because she is afraid of that dreadful black man,
+      and so am I.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You need n't be afraid. I am here. Marie, Marie. It is I.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Marie crept toward them, but the moment she saw Germain with the farmer
+      close behind, she sprang forward, and throwing herself into his arms,
+      clung to him as a daughter to her father.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, my brave Germain!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;you will defend me. I am not afraid
+      when you are near.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain shuddered. He looked at Marie. She was pale; her clothes were torn
+      by the thorns which had scratched her as she passed, rushing toward the
+      brake like a stag chased by the hunters. But neither shame nor despair
+      were in her face.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Your master wishes to speak to you,&rdquo; said he, his eyes fixed on her
+      features.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;My master!&rdquo; she exclaimed fiercely; &ldquo;that man is no master of mine, and
+      he never shall be. You, Germain, you are my master. I want you to take me
+      home with you. I will be your servant for nothing.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The farmer advanced, feigning impatience. &ldquo;Little girl,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you
+      left something behind at the farm, which I am bringing back to you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, you are not, sir,&rdquo; answered little Marie. &ldquo;I did n't forget anything,
+      and I have nothing to ask of you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Listen a moment,&rdquo; returned the farmer. &ldquo;It 's I who have something to
+      tell you. Come with me. Don't be afraid. It's only a word or two.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You may say them aloud. I have no secrets with you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;At any rate, do take your money.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;My money? You owe me nothing, thank God!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I suspected as much,&rdquo; said Germain under his breath, &ldquo;but I don't care,
+      Marie. Listen to what he has to say to you, for&mdash;I am curious to
+      know. You can tell me afterward. Go up to his horse. I shall not lose
+      sight of you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Marie took three steps toward the farmer. He bent over the pommel of his
+      saddle, and lowering his voice he said:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Little girl, here is a bright golden louis for you. Don't say anything
+      about it; do you hear? I shall say that I found you too frail to work on
+      my farm. There will be no more talk about that. I shall be passing by your
+      house one of these days; and if you have not said anything, I will give
+      you something more; and then if you are more sensible, you have only to
+      speak. I will take you home with me, or I will come at dusk and talk with
+      you in the meadows. What present would you like me to bring you?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Here, sir, is the present I have for you,&rdquo; answered little Marie, aloud,
+      as she threw the golden louis in his face with all her might. &ldquo;I thank you
+      heartily, and I beg that if you come anywhere near our house, you will be
+      good enough to let me know. All the boys in the neighborhood will go out
+      to welcome you, because, where I live, we are very fond of gentlemen who
+      try to make love to poor girls. You shall see. They will be on the lookout
+      for you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You lie with your dirty tongue,&rdquo; cried the farmer, raising his stick with
+      a dangerous air. &ldquo;You wish to make people believe what is not so, but you
+      shall never get a penny out of me. We know what kind of a girl you are.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Marie drew back, frightened, and Germain sprang to the bridle of the
+      farmer's horse and shook it violently.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I understand now,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;it is easy to see what is going on. Get
+      down, my man, get down; I want to talk to you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The farmer was not eager to take up the quarrel. Anxious to escape, he set
+      spurs to his horse and tried to loosen the peasant's grasp by striking
+      down his hands with a cane; but Germain dodged the blow, and seizing hold
+      of his antagonist's leg, he unseated him and flung him to the earth. The
+      farmer regained his feet, but although he defended himself vigorously, he
+      was knocked down once more. Germain held him to the ground. Then he said:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Poor coward, I could thrash you if I wished. But I don't want to do you
+      an injury, and, besides, no amount of punishment would help your
+      conscience&mdash;but you shall not stir from this spot until you beg the
+      girl's pardon, on your knees.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The farmer understood this sort of thing, and wished to take it all as a
+      joke. He made believe that his offense was not serious, since it lay in
+      words alone, and protested that he was perfectly willing to ask her
+      pardon, provided he might kiss the girl afterward. Finally, he proposed
+      that they go and drink a pint of wine at the nearest tavern, and so part
+      good friends.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are disgusting!&rdquo; answered Germain, rubbing his victim's head in the
+      dirt, &ldquo;and I never wish to see your nasty face again. So blush, if you are
+      able, and when you come to our village, you had better slink along Sneak's
+      Alley.&rdquo; *
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He picked up the farmer's holly-stick, broke it over his knee to show the
+      strength of his wrists, and threw away the pieces with disgust Then giving
+      one hand to his son and the other to little Marie, he walked away, still
+      trembling with anger.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      * This is the road, which, diverging from the principal street at the
+      entrance of villages, makes a circuit about them.. Persons who are in
+      dread off receiving some well deserved insult, are supposed to take this
+      route to escape attention.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0015" id="linklink2H_4_0015">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      XIV &mdash; The Return to the Farm
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      AT the end of fifteen minutes they had left the heath behind them. They
+      trotted along the highroad, and the gray whinnied at each familiar object.
+      Petit-Pierre told his father as much as he could understand of what had
+      passed.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;When we reached the farm,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;that man came to speak to my Marie
+      in the fold where we had gone to see the pretty sheep. I had climbed into
+      the manger to play, and that man did not see me. Then he said good morning
+      to Marie, and he kissed her.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You allowed him to kiss you, Marie?&rdquo; said Germain, trembling with anger.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I thought it was a civility, a custom of the place to new-comers, just as
+      at your farm the grandmother kisses the young girls who enter her service
+      to show that she adopts them and will be a mother to them.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And next,&rdquo; went on little Pierre, who was proud to have an adventure to
+      tell of, &ldquo;<i>that man</i> told you something wicked, which you have told
+      me never to repeat and not even remember; so I forgot it right away.
+      Still, if father wishes, I will tell him what it was&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, Pierre, I don't wish to hear, and I don't wish you ever to think of
+      it again.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then I will forget it all over again,&rdquo; replied the child. &ldquo;Next, <i>that
+      man</i> seemed to be growing angry because Marie told him that she was
+      going away. He told her he would give her whatever she wanted,&mdash;a
+      hundred francs! And my Marie grew angry too. Then he came toward her as if
+      he wished to hurt her. I was afraid, and I ran to Marie and cried. Then <i>that
+      man</i> said: 'What 's that? Where did that child come from? Put it out,'
+      and he raised his cane to beat me. But my Marie prevented him, and she
+      spoke to him this way: 'We will talk later, sir; now I must take this
+      child back to Fourche, and then I shall return.' And as soon as he had
+      left the fold, my Marie spoke to me this way: 'We must run, my Pierre; we
+      must get away as quickly as we can, for this is a wicked man and he is
+      trying to do us harm.' Then when we had gone back of the farm-houses, we
+      crossed a little meadow, and we went to Fourche to find you. But you were
+      not there, and they would n't let us wait. And then <i>that man</i>,
+      riding his black horse, came behind us, and we ran on as fast as we could
+      and hid in the woods. And then he followed us, and when we heard him
+      coming, we hid again. And then, when he had passed, we began to run toward
+      home, and then you came and found us, and that is how it all happened. I
+      have n't forgotten anything, have I, my Marie?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, my Pierre, that is the whole truth. Now, Germain, you must be my
+      witness, and tell everybody in the village that if I did not stay there it
+      was not from want of courage and industry.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And, Marie, I want to ask of you whether a man of twenty-eight is too old
+      when there is a woman to be defended and an insult to be revenged. I
+      should like to know whether Bastien or any other pretty boy, ten years
+      better off than I, would not have been knocked to pieces by <i>that man</i>,
+      as Petit-Pierre says. What do you think?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I think, Germain, that you have done me a great service, and that I shall
+      be grateful all my life.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Is that all?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Little father,&rdquo; said the child, &ldquo;I forgot to ask little Marie what I
+      promised. I have not had time yet, but I will speak to her at home, and I
+      will speak to my grandmother too.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The child's promise set Germain to thinking He must explain his conduct to
+      his family and give his objections to the widow Guam, and all the while
+      conceal the true reasons which had made him so judicious and so decided.
+      When a man is proud and happy, it seems an easy task to thrust his
+      happiness upon others, but to be repulsed on one side and blamed on the
+      other is not a very pleasant position.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Fortunately, Petit-Pierre was fast asleep when they reached the farm, and
+      Germain put him to bed undisturbed. Then he began upon all sorts of
+      explanations, Father Maurice, seated on a three-legged stool before the
+      door, listened with gravity; and, although he was ill-content with the
+      result of the journey, when Germain told him about the widow's systematic
+      coquetry, and demanded of his father-in-law whether he had the time to go
+      and pay his court fifty-two Sundays in the year at the risk of being
+      dismissed in the end, the old man nodded his head in assent and answered:
+      &ldquo;You were not wrong, Germain; that could never be.&rdquo; And then, when Germain
+      described how he had been obliged to bring back little Marie, with the
+      utmost haste, in order to protect her from the insults or perhaps from the
+      violence of a wicked master, Father Maurice nodded approvingly again and
+      said: &ldquo;You were not wrong, Germain; that was right.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      When Germain had told his story, and had set forth all his reasons, the
+      old farmer and his wife heaved deep, simultaneous sighs of resignation,
+      and looked at each other. Then the head of the house rose and said: &ldquo;God's
+      will be done. Love can't be made to order.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Come to supper, Germain,&rdquo; said his mother-in-law. &ldquo;It is unfortunate that
+      this did not come to a better end, but, after all, it seems that God did
+      not wish it. We must look elsewhere.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; added the old man, &ldquo;as my wife says, we must look elsewhere.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      There was no more noise at the house, and on the morrow, when Petit-Pierre
+      rose with the larks at dawn, he was no longer excited by the extraordinary
+      events of the preceding days. Like other little peasants of his age, he
+      became indifferent, forgot everything that had been running in his head,
+      and thought only of playing with his brothers, and of pretending to drive
+      the horses and oxen like a man. Germain plunged into his work, and tried
+      to forget, too; but he became so absent-minded and so sad that everybody
+      noticed it. He never spoke to little Marie, he never even looked at her,
+      and yet had anybody asked him in what meadow she was, or by what road she
+      had passed, there was not a moment in the day when he could not have
+      answered if he would. He dared not ask his family to take her in at the
+      farm during the winter, and yet he knew well how she must suffer from
+      want. But she did not suffer; and Mother Guillette could not understand
+      how her little store of wood never grew less, and how her shed was full in
+      the morning, although she had left it almost empty at night It was the
+      same with the wheat and potatoes. Somebody entered by the garret window,
+      and emptied a sack on the floor without awaking a soul or leaving a trace
+      of his coming. The widow was at once uneasy and delighted. She made her
+      daughter promise to tell nobody, and said that were people to know of the
+      miracle performed at her house they would take her for a witch. She felt
+      confident that the devil had a share in it, but she was in no hurry to
+      pick a quarrel with him by calling down the priest's exorcisms on the
+      house. It would be time enough, she said, when Satan should come to demand
+      her soul in return for his gifts.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Little Marie understood the truth better, but she dared not speak to
+      Germain, for fear of seeing him return to his dreams of marriage, and,
+      before him, she pretended to perceive nothing.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0016" id="linklink2H_4_0016">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      XV &mdash; Mother Maurice
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      ONE day, Mother Maurice was alone in the orchard with Germain, and spoke
+      to him kindly:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;My poor son, I believe you are not well. You don't eat as well as usual;
+      you never laugh; you talk less and less. Perhaps one of us, or all of us,
+      have hurt your feelings, without knowing and without wishing it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, my mother,&rdquo; answered Germain, &ldquo;you have always been as kind to me as
+      the mother who brought me into the world, and I should be very ungrateful
+      if I were to complain of you or your husband, or of anybody in the
+      household.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then, my child, it is the sorrow for your wife's death which comes back
+      to you. Instead of growing lighter with time, your grief becomes worse,
+      and as your father has said very wisely, it is absolutely necessary for
+      you to marry again.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, my mother, that is my opinion, but the women whom you advised me to
+      ask don't suit me. Whenever I see them, instead of forgetting my
+      Catherine, I think of her all the more.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Apparently that 's because we have n't been able to understand your
+      taste. You must help us by telling us the truth. There must be a woman
+      somewhere who is made for you, for God does n't make anybody without
+      placing his happiness in somebody else. So if you know where to find this
+      woman whom you need, take her, and be she pretty or ugly, young or old,
+      rich or poor, we have made up our minds, my husband and I, to give our
+      consent, for we are tired of seeing you so sad, and we can never be happy
+      while you are sorrowful.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;My mother, you are as kind as the kind Lord, and so is my father,&rdquo;
+       answered Germain; &ldquo;but your compassion brings small help to my troubles,
+      for the girl I love does n't care for me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;She is too young, then? It's foolish for you to love a young girl.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, mother dear, I have been foolish enough to love a young girl, and it
+      's my fault. I do my best to stop thinking of it, but, working or
+      sleeping, at mass or in bed, with my children or with you, I can think of
+      nothing else.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then it 's like a fate cast over you, Germain. There 's but one remedy,
+      and it is that this girl must change her mind and listen to you. It's my
+      duty to look into this, and see whether it 's practicable. Tell me where
+      she lives, and what 's her name.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, my dear mother, I dare not,&rdquo; said Germain, &ldquo;because you will make fun
+      of me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I shall not make fun of you, Germain, because you are in trouble, and I
+      don't wish to make it harder for you. Is it Fanchette?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, mother, of course not.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Or Rosette?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Tell me, then, for I shall never finish if I must name every girl in the
+      country-side.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain bowed his head, and could not bring himself to answer.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Very good,&rdquo; said Mother Maurice, &ldquo;I shall let you alone for to-day;
+      to-morrow, perhaps, you will be more confidential with me, or possibly
+      your sister-in-law will question you more cleverly.&rdquo; And she picked up her
+      basket to go and spread her linen on the bushes.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain acted like children who make up their minds when they see that
+      they are no longer attracting attention. He followed his mother, and at
+      length, trembling, he named Marie of Guillette.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Great was the surprise of Mother Maurice. Marie was the last person she
+      would have dreamed of. But she had the delicacy not to cry out, and made
+      her comments to herself. Then seeing that her silence hurt Germain, she
+      stretched out her basket toward him and said:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Is there any reason for not helping me at my work. Carry this load, and
+      come and talk with me. Have you reflected well, Germain? Are you fully
+      decided?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Alas, dear mother, you must n't speak in that way. I should be decided if
+      I had a chance of success, but as I could never be heard, I have only made
+      up my mind to cure myself, if I can.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And if you can't.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;There is an end to everything, Mother Maurice: when the horse is laden
+      too heavily, he falls, and when the cow has nothing to eat, she dies.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Do you mean to say that you will die, if you do not succeed. God grant
+      not, Germain. I don't like to hear a man like you talk of those things;
+      for what he says, he thinks. You are very brave, and weakness is dangerous
+      for strong men. Take heart; I can't conceive that a poverty-stricken girl,
+      whom you have honored so much as to ask her to marry you, will refuse
+      you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yet it 's the truth: she does refuse me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And what reasons does she give you?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That you have always been kind to her, and that her family owes a great
+      deal to yours, and that she does n't wish to displease you by turning me
+      away from a rich marriage.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;If she says that, she proves her good sense, and shows what an honest
+      girl she is. But, Germain, she does n't cure you; for of course she tells
+      you that she loves you and would marry you if we were willing?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That's the worst part of all. She says that her heart can never be mine.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;If she says what she does n't think in order to keep you at a safer
+      distance, the child deserves our love, and we should pass over her youth
+      on account of her great good sense.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Germain, struck by a hope he had never held before; &ldquo;that
+      would be very wise and right of her! But if she is so sensible, I am sure
+      it is because I displease her.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Germain,&rdquo; said Mother Maurice, &ldquo;you must promise me not to worry for a
+      whole week. Keep from tormenting yourself, eat, sleep, and be as gay as
+      you used to be. For my part, I 'll speak to my husband, and if I gain his
+      consent, you shall know the girl's real feelings toward you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain promised, and the week passed without a single word in private
+      from Father Maurice, who seemed to suspect nothing. The husbandman did his
+      best to look calm, but he grew ever paler and more troubled.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0017" id="linklink2H_4_0017">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      XVI &mdash; Little Marie
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      AT length, on Sunday morning, when mass was over, his mother-in-law asked
+      Germain what encouragement he had had from his sweetheart since the
+      conversation in the orchard.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why, none at all,&rdquo; answered he; &ldquo;I have n't spoken to her.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;How can you expect to win her if you don't speak to her?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I have spoken to her but once,&rdquo; replied Germain. &ldquo;That was when we were
+      together at Fourche, and since then I have n't said a single word. Her
+      refusal gave me so much pain that I had rather not hear her begin again to
+      tell me that she does n't love me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But, my son, you must speak to her now; your father gives his approval.
+      So make up your mind. I tell you to do it, and, if need be, I shall order
+      you to do it, for you can't rest in this uncertainty.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain obeyed. He reached Mother Guillette's house, hanging his head with
+      a hopeless air. Little Marie sat alone before the hearth so thoughtful
+      that she did not hear Germain's step. When she saw him before her, she
+      started from her chair in surprise and grew very red.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Little Marie,&rdquo; said he, sitting down near her, &ldquo;I come to trouble you and
+      to give you pain. I know it very well, but the man and his wife at home
+      [it was thus after the peasant fashion that he designated the heads of the
+      house] wish me to speak to you, and beg you to marry me. You don't care
+      for me. I am prepared for it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Germain,&rdquo; answered little Marie, &ldquo;are you sure that you love me?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It pains you, I know, but it is n't my fault. If you could change your
+      mind, I should be so very happy, and certain it is that I don't deserve
+      it. Look at me, Marie; am I very terrible?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, Germain,&rdquo; she answered, with a smile, &ldquo;you are better looking than
+      I.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Don't make fun of me; look at me charitably; as yet, I have never lost a
+      single hair nor a single tooth. My eyes tell you plainly how much I love
+      you. Look straight into my eyes. It is written there, and every girl knows
+      how to read that writing.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Marie looked into Germain's eyes with playful boldness; then of a sudden
+      she turned away her head and trembled.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Good God,&rdquo; exclaimed Germain, &ldquo;I make you afraid; you look at me as
+      though I were the farmer of Ormeaux. Don't be afraid of me, please don't;
+      that hurts me too much. I shall not say any bad words to you, I shall not
+      kiss you if you will not have me, and when you wish me to go away, you
+      have only to show me the door. Must I go in order to stop your trembling?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Marie held out her hand toward the husbandman, but without turning her
+      head, which was bent on the fireplace, and without saying a word.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I understand,&rdquo; said Germain. &ldquo;You pity me, for you are kind; you are
+      sorry to make me unhappy; but you cant love me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why do you say these things to me, Germain?&rdquo; answered little Marie, after
+      a pause. &ldquo;Do you wish to make me cry?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Poor little girl, you have a kind heart, I know; but you don't love me,
+      and you are hiding your face for fear of letting me see your dislike and
+      your repugnance. And I? I dare not even clasp your hand! In the forest,
+      when my boy was asleep and you were sleeping too, I almost kissed you very
+      gently. But I would have died of shame rather than ask it of you, and that
+      night I suffered as a man burning over a slow fire. Since that time I have
+      dreamed of you every night. Ah! how I have kissed you, Marie! Yet during
+      all that time you have slept without a dream. And now, do you know what I
+      think? I think that were you to turn and look at me with the eyes I have
+      for you, and were you to move your face close to mine, I believe I should
+      fall dead for joy. And you, you think that if such a thing were to happen,
+      you would die of anger and shame!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain spoke as in a dream, not hearing the words he said. Little Marie
+      was trembling all the time, but he was shaking yet more and did not notice
+      it. Of a sudden, she turned. Her eyes were filled with tears, and she
+      looked at him reproachfully. The poor husbandman thought that this was the
+      last blow, and without waiting for his sentence, he rose to go, but the
+      girl stopped him, and throwing both her arms about him, she hid her face
+      in his breast.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, Germain,&rdquo; she sobbed, &ldquo;did n't you feel that I loved you?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Then Germain had gone mad, if his son, who came galloping into the cottage
+      on a stick, with his little sister on the crupper, scourging the imaginary
+      steed with a willow branch, had not brought him to his senses. He lifted
+      the boy and placed him in the girl's arms.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;See,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;by loving me, you have made more than one person happy.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_APPE" id="linklink2H_APPE">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      APPENDIX
+    </h2>
+    <h3>
+      I &mdash; A Country Wedding
+    </h3>
+    <p>
+      HERE ends the history of Germain's marriage as he told it to me himself,
+      good husbandman that he is. I ask your forgiveness, kind reader, that I
+      know not how to translate it better; for it is a real translation that is
+      needed by this old-fashioned and artless language of the peasants of the
+      country &ldquo;that I sing,&rdquo; as they used to say. These people speak French that
+      is too true for us, and since Rabelais and Montaigne, the advance of the
+      language has lost for us many of its old riches. Thus it is with every
+      advance, and we must make the best of it. Yet it is a pleasure still to
+      hear those picturesque idioms used in the old districts in the center of
+      France; all the more because it is the genuine expression of the laughing,
+      quiet, and delightfully talkative character of the people who make use of
+      it. Touraine has preserved a certain precious number of patriarchal
+      phrases. But Touraine was civilized greatly during the Renaissance, and
+      since its decline she is filled with fine houses and highroads, with
+      foreigners and traffic. Berry remained as she was, and I think that after
+      Brittany and a few provinces in the far south of France, it is the best
+      preserved district to be found at the present day. Some of the costumes
+      are so strange and so curious that I hope to amuse you a few minutes more,
+      kind reader, if you will allow me to describe to you in detail a country
+      wedding&mdash;Germain's, for example&mdash;at which I had the pleasure of
+      assisting several years ago.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      For, alas! everything passes. During my life alone, more change has taken
+      place in the ideas and in the customs of my village than had been seen in
+      the centuries before the Revolution. Already half the ceremonies, Celtic,
+      Pagan, or of the Middle Ages, that in my childhood I have seen in their
+      full vigor, have disappeared. In a year or two more, perhaps, the
+      railroads will lay their level tracks across our deep valleys, and will
+      carry away, with the swiftness of lightning, all our old traditions and
+      our wonderful legends.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was in winter about the carnival season, the time of year when, in our
+      country, it is fitting and proper to have weddings. In summer the time can
+      hardly be spared, and the work of the farm cannot suffer three days'
+      delay, not to speak of the additional days impaired to a greater or to a
+      less degree by the moral and physical drunkenness which follows a
+      gala-day. I was seated beneath the great mantelpiece of the old-fashioned
+      kitchen fireplace when shots of pistols, barking of dogs, and the piercing
+      notes of the bagpipe told me that the bridal pair were approaching. Very
+      soon Father and Mother Maurice, Germain, and little Marie, followed by
+      Jacques and his wife, the closer relatives, and the godfathers and
+      godmothers of the bride and groom, all made their entry into the yard.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Little Marie had not yet received her wedding-gifts,&mdash;favors, as they
+      call them,&mdash;and was dressed in the best of her simple clothes, a
+      dress of dark, heavy cloth, a white fichu with great spots of brilliant
+      color, an apron of carnation,&mdash;an Indian red much in vogue at the
+      time, but despised nowadays,&mdash;a cap of very white muslin after that
+      pattern, happily still preserved, which calls to mind the head-dress of
+      Anne Boleyn and of Agnes Sorrel. She was fresh and laughing, but not at
+      all vain, though she had good reason to be so. Beside her was Germain,
+      serious and tender, like young Jacob greeting Rebecca at the wells of
+      Laban. Another girl would have assumed an important air and struck an
+      attitude of triumph, for in every rank it is something to be married for a
+      fair face alone. Yet the girl's eyes were moist and shone with tenderness.
+      It was plain that she was deep in love and had no time to think of the
+      opinions of others. Her little air of determination was not absent, but
+      everything about her denoted frankness and good-will. There was nothing
+      impertinent in her success, nothing selfish in her sense of power. Never
+      have I seen so lovely a bride, when she answered with frankness her young
+      friends who asked if she were happy:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Surely I have nothing to complain of the good Lord.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Father Maurice was spokesman. He came forward to pay his compliments, and
+      give the customary invitations. First he fastened to the mantelpiece a
+      branch of laurel decked out with ribbons; this is known as the <i>writ</i>&mdash;that
+      is to say, the letter of announcement. Next he gave to every guest a tiny
+      cross made of a bit of blue ribbon sewn to a transverse bit of pink ribbon&mdash;pink
+      for the bride, blue for the groom. The guests of both sexes were expected
+      to keep this badge to adorn their caps or their button-holes on the
+      wedding-day. This is the letter of invitation, the admission ticket.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then Father Maurice paid his congratulations. He invited the head of the
+      house and all his <i>company</i>,&mdash;that is to say, all his children,
+      all his friends, and all his servants,&mdash;to the benediction, <i>to the
+      feast, to the sports, to the dance, and to everything that follows</i>. He
+      did not fail to say, &ldquo;I have come <i>to do you the honor of inviting you</i>&rdquo;;
+      a very right manner of speech, even though it appears to us to convey the
+      wrong meaning, for it expresses the idea of doing honor to those who seem
+      worthy of it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Despite the generosity of the invitation carried from house to house
+      throughout the parish, politeness, which is very cautious amongst
+      peasants, demands that only two persons from each family take advantage of
+      it&mdash;one of the heads of the house, and one from the number of their
+      children.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After the invitations were made, the betrothed couple and their families
+      took dinner together at the farm.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Little Marie kept her three sheep on the common, and Germain tilled the
+      soil as though nothing had happened.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      About two in the afternoon before the day set for the wedding, the music
+      came. The music means the players of the bagpipe and hurdy-gurdy, their
+      instruments decorated with long streaming ribbons, playing an appropriate
+      march to a measure which would have been rather slow for feet foreign to
+      the soil, but admirably adapted to the heavy ground and hilly roads of the
+      country.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Pistol-shots, fired by the young people and the children, announced the
+      beginning of the wedding ceremonies. Little by little the guests
+      assembled, and danced on the grass-plot before the house in order to enter
+      into the spirit of the occasion. When evening was come they began strange
+      preparations; they divided into two bands, and when night had settled down
+      they proceeded to the ceremony of the <i>favors</i>.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      All this passed at the dwelling of the bride, Mother Guillette's cottage.
+      Mother Guillette took with her her daughter, a dozen pretty shepherdesses,
+      friends and relatives of her daughter, two or three respectable
+      housewives, talkative neighbors, quick of wit and strict guardians of
+      ancient customs. Next she chose a dozen stout fellows, her relatives and
+      friends; and last of all the parish hemp-dresser, a garrulous old man, and
+      as good a talker as ever there was.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The part which, in Brittany, is played by the bazvalon, the village
+      tailor, is taken in our part of the country by the hemp-dresser and the
+      wool-carder, two professions which are unusually combined in one. He is
+      present at all ceremonies, sad or gay, for he is very learned and a fluent
+      talker, and on these occasions he must always figure as spokesman, in
+      order to fulfil with exactitude certain formalities used from time
+      immemorial. Traveling occupations, which bring a man into the midst of
+      other families, without allowing him to shut himself up within his own,
+      are well fitted to make him talker, wit, storyteller, and singer.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The hemp-dresser is peculiarly skeptical. He and another village
+      functionary, of whom we have spoken before, the grave-digger, are always
+      the daring spirits of the neighborhood. They have talked so much about
+      ghosts, and they know so well all the tricks of which these malicious
+      spirits are capable, that they fear them scarcely at all. It is especially
+      at night that all of them&mdash;grave-diggers, hemp-dressers, and ghosts&mdash;do
+      their work. It is also at night when the hemp-dresser tells his melancholy
+      stories. Permit me to make a digression.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When the hemp has reached the right stage, that is to say, when it has
+      been steeped sufficiently in running water, and half dried on the bank, it
+      is brought into the yard and arranged in little upright sheaves, which,
+      with their stalks divided at the base, and their heads bound in balls,
+      bear in the dusk some small resemblance to a long procession of little
+      white phantoms, standing on their slender legs, and moving noiselessly
+      along the wall.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It is at the end of September, when the nights are still warm, that they
+      begin to beat it by the pale light of the moon. By day the hemp has been
+      heated in the oven; at night they take it out to beat it while it is still
+      hot. For this they use a kind of horse surmounted by a wooden lever which
+      falls into grooves and breaks the plant without cutting it. It is then
+      that you hear in the night that sudden, sharp noise of three blows in
+      quick succession. Then there is silence; it is the movement of the arm
+      drawing out the handful of hemp to break it in a fresh spot. The three
+      blows begin again; the other arm works the lever, and thus it goes on
+      until the moon is hidden by the early streaks of dawn. As the work
+      continues but a few days in the year, the dogs are not accustomed to it,
+      and yelp their plaintive howls toward every point of the horizon.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It is the time of unwonted and mysterious sounds in the country. The
+      migrating cranes fly so high that by day they are scarcely visible. By
+      night they are only heard, and their hoarse wailing voices, lost in the
+      clouds, sound like the parting cry of souls in torment, striving to find
+      the road to heaven, yet forced by an unconquerable fate to wander near the
+      earth about the haunts of men; for these errant birds have strange
+      uncertainties, and many a mysterious anxiety in the course of their airy
+      flight. Sometimes they lose the wind when the capricious gusts battle, or
+      come and go in the upper regions. When this confusion comes by day, you
+      can see the leader of the file fluttering aimlessly in the air, then turn
+      about and take his place at the tail of the triangular phalanx, while a
+      skilful manoeuver of his companions forms them soon in good order behind
+      him. Often, after vain efforts, the exhausted leader relinquishes the
+      guidance of the caravan; another comes forward, tries in his turn, and
+      yields his place to a third, who finds the breeze, and continues the march
+      in triumph. But what cries, what reproaches, what protests, what wild
+      curses or anxious questionings are exchanged in an unknown tongue amongst
+      these winged pilgrims!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Sometimes, in the resonant night, you can hear these sinister noises
+      whirling for a long time above the housetops, and as you can see nothing,
+      you feel, despite your efforts, a kind of dread and kindred discomfort,
+      until the sobbing multitude is lost in boundless space.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There are other noises too which belong to this time of year, and which
+      sound usually in the orchards. Gathering the fruit is not yet over, and
+      the thousand unaccustomed cracklings make the tree seem alive. A branch
+      groans as it bends beneath a burden which has reached, of a sudden, the
+      last stage of growth; or perhaps an apple breaks from the twig, and falls
+      on the damp earth at your feet with a dull sound. Then you hear rush by,
+      brushing the branches and the grass, a creature you cannot see; it is the
+      peasant's dog, that prowling and uneasy rover, at once impudent and
+      cowardly, always wandering, never sleeping, ever seeking you know not
+      what, spying upon you, hiding in the brush, and taking flight at the sound
+      of a falling apple, which he thinks a stone that you are throwing at him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It is during those nights, nights misty and gray, that the hemp-dresser
+      tells his weird stories of will-o'-the-wisps and milk-white hares, of
+      souls in torment and wizards changed to wolves, of witches' vigils at the
+      cross-roads, and screech-owls, prophetesses of the graveyard. I remember
+      passing the early hours of such a night while the hemp-dressing was going
+      on, and the pitiless strokes, interrupting the dresser's story at its most
+      awful place, sent icy shivers through our veins. And often too the good
+      man continued his story as he worked, and four or five words were lost,
+      terrible words, no doubt, which we dared not make him repeat, and whose
+      omission added a mystery yet more fearful to the dark mysteries of the
+      story which had gone before. It was in vain the servants warned us that it
+      was too late to stay without doors, and that bedtime had sounded for us
+      long since; they too were dying to hear more; and then with what terror we
+      crossed the hamlet on our way home! How deep did the church porch appear
+      to us, and how thick and black the shadows of the old trees! The graveyard
+      we dared not see; we shut our eyes tight as we passed it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But no more than the sacristan is the hemp-dresser gifted solely with the
+      desire of frightening; he loves to make people laugh; he is sarcastic and
+      sentimental at need, when love and marriage are to be sung. It is he who
+      collects and keeps stored in his memory the oldest songs, and who
+      transmits them to posterity. And so it is he who acts at weddings the part
+      we shall see him play at the presentation of little Marie's favors.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0019" id="linklink2H_4_0019">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      II &mdash; The Wedding Favors
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      WHEN all the guests were met together in the house, the doors and windows
+      were closed with the utmost care; even the garret window was barricaded;
+      boards and benches, logs and tables were placed behind every entrance,
+      just as if the inhabitants were making ready to sustain a siege; and
+      within these fortifications solemn stillness prevailed until at a distance
+      were heard songs and laughter and the sounds of rustic music. It was the
+      band of the bridegroom, Germain at the head, followed by his most trusty
+      companions and by the grave-digger, relatives, friends, and servants, who
+      formed a compact and merry train. Meanwhile, as they came nearer the house
+      they slackened their pace, held a council of war, and became silent. The
+      girls, shut up in the house, had arranged little loop-holes at the windows
+      by which they could see the enemy approach and deploy in battle array. A
+      fine, cold rain was falling, which added zest to the situation, while a
+      great tire blazed on the hearth within. Marie wished to cut short the
+      inevitable slowness of this well-ordered siege; she had no desire to see
+      her lover catch cold, but not being in authority she had to take an
+      ostensible share in the mischievous cruelty of her companions.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When the two armies met, a discharge of firearms on the part of the
+      besiegers set all the dogs in the neighborhood to barking. Those within
+      the house dashed at the door with loud yelps, thinking that the attack was
+      in earnest, and the children, little reassured by the efforts of their
+      mothers, began to weep and to tremble. The whole scene was played so well
+      that a stranger would have been deceived, and would have made his
+      preparations to tight a band of brigands. Then the grave-digger, bard and
+      orator of the groom, took his stand before the door, and with a rueful
+      voice, exchanged the following dialogue with the hemp-dresser, who was
+      stationed above the same door:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;Ah, my good people, my fellow-townsmen, for the
+      love of Heaven, open the door.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;Who are you, and what right have you to call us
+      your dear fellow-townsmen? We don't know you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;We are worthy folk in great distress. Don't be
+      afraid of us, my friends. Extend us your hospitality. Sleet is falling;
+      our poor feet are frozen, and our journey home has been so long that our
+      sabots are split.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;If your sabots are split, you can look on the
+      ground; you will find very soon a sprig of willow to make some <i>arcelets</i>
+      [small curved blades of iron which are fastened on split sabots to hold
+      them together].&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;Willow <i>arcelets</i> are scarcely strong
+      enough. You are making fun of us, good people, and you would do better to
+      open your doors. We can see a splendid fire blazing in your dwelling. The
+      spit must be turning, and we can make merry with you, heart and belly. So
+      open your doors to poor pilgrims who will die on the threshold if you are
+      not merciful.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;Ah ha! so you are pilgrims? You never told us
+      that. And what pilgrimage do you come from, may I ask?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;We shall tell you that when you open the door,
+      for we come from so far that you would never believe it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;Open the door to you? I rather think not. We
+      can't trust you. Tell us, is it from Saint Sylvain of Pouligny that you
+      come?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;We have been at Saint Sylvain of Pouligny, but
+      we have been farther still.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;Then you have been as far as Saint Solange?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;At Saint Solange we have been, sure enough, but
+      we have been farther yet.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;You are lying. You have never been as far as
+      Saint Solange.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;We have been farther, for now we are come from
+      Saint Jacques of Compostelle.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;What absurdity are you telling us? We don't know
+      that parish. We can easily see that you are bad people, brigands,
+      nobodies, and liars. Go away with your nonsense. We are on our guard. You
+      can't come in.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;Ah, my poor fellow, take pity on us. We are not
+      pilgrims, as you have guessed, but we are unlucky poachers pursued by the
+      keepers. Even the police are after us, and if you don't hide us in your
+      hay-loft, we shall be taken and led off to prison.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;And who will prove you are what you say you are,
+      this time? For you have told us one lie already that you can't maintain.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;If you will let us in, we shall show you a
+      pretty piece of game we have killed.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;Show it right away, for we have our suspicions.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;All right, open the door or a window to let us
+      pass the creature in.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;Oh, no, not quite so foolish. I am looking at
+      you through a little chink, and I can see neither hunters nor game amongst
+      you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Here an ox-driver, a thick-set fellow of herculean strength, detached
+      himself from a group where he had stood unperceived, and raised toward the
+      window a plucked goose, spitted on a strong iron bar decorated with tufts
+      of straw and ribbons.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Ho, ho!&rdquo; cried the hemp-dresser, after cautiously extending an arm to
+      feel the roast. &ldquo;That is n't a quail nor a partridge; it is n't a hare nor
+      a rabbit; it 's something like a goose or a turkey. Upon my word, you 're
+      clever hunters, and that game did n't make you run very far. Move on, you
+      rogues; we know all your lies, and you had best go home and cook your
+      supper. You are not going to eat ours.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;O Heavens, where can we go to cook our game? It
+      is very little for so many as we, and, besides, we have neither place nor
+      fire. At this time every door is closed, and every soul asleep. You are
+      the only people who are celebrating a wedding at home, and you must he
+      hardhearted indeed to let us freeze outside. Once again, good people, open
+      the door; we shall not cost you anything. You can see that we bring our
+      own meat; only a little room at your hearth, a little blaze to cook with,
+      and we shall go on our way rejoicing.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;Do you suppose that we have too much room here,
+      and that wood is bought tor nothing?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;We have here a small bundle of hay to make the
+      fire. We shall be satisfied with that; only grant us leave to place the
+      spit across your fireplace.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;That will never do. We are disgusted, and don't
+      pity you at all. It is my opinion that you are drunk, that you need
+      nothing, and that you only wish to come in and steal away our fire and our
+      daughters.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;Since you won't listen to reason, we shall make
+      our way in by force.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;Try, if you want; we are shut in well enough to
+      have no fear of you, and since you are impudent fellows, we shall not
+      answer you again.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Thereupon the hemp-dresser shut the garret window with a bang, and came
+      down into the room below by a step-ladder. Then he took the bride by the
+      hand, the young people of both sexes followed, and they all began to sing
+      and chatter merrily, while the matrons sang in piercing voices, and
+      shrieked with laughter in derision and bravado at those without who were
+      attempting an attack.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The besiegers, on their side, made a great hubbub. They discharged their
+      pistols at the doors, made the dogs growl, whacked the walls, shook the
+      blinds, and uttered frightful shrieks. In short, there was such a
+      pandemonium that nobody could hear, and such a cloud of dust that nobody
+      could see.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And yet this attack was all a sham. The time had not come for breaking
+      through the etiquette. If, in prowling about, anybody were to find an
+      unguarded aperture, or any opening whatsoever, he might try to slip in
+      unobserved, and then, if the carrier of the spit succeeded in placing his
+      roast before the fire, and thus prove the capture of the hearth, the
+      comedy was over and the bridegroom had conquered.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The entrances of the house, however, were not numerous enough for any to
+      be neglected in the customary precautions, and nobody might use violence
+      before the moment fixed for the struggle.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When they were weary of dancing and screams, the hemp-dresser began to
+      think of capitulation. He went up to his window, opened it with
+      precaution, and greeted the baffled assailants with a burst of laughter.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well, my boys,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you look very sheep-faced. You thought there
+      was nothing easier than to come in, and you see that our defense is good.
+      But we are beginning to have pity on you, if you will submit and accept
+      our conditions.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;Speak, good people. Tell us what we must do to
+      approach your hearth.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>: &ldquo;You must sing, my friends; but sing a song we
+      don't know,&mdash;one that we can't answer by a better.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That 's not hard to do,&rdquo; answered the grave-digger, and he thundered in a
+      powerful voice: &ldquo;'Six months ago, 'twas in the spring...'&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;'I wandered through the sprouting grass,'&rdquo; answered the hemp-dresser in a
+      slightly hoarse but terrible voice. &ldquo;You must be jesting, my poor friends,
+      singing us such time-worn songs. You see very well that we can stop you at
+      the first word.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     &ldquo;'She was a prince's daughter...'&rdquo;
+ </pre>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;'Right gladly would she wed,'&rdquo; answered the hemp-dresser. &ldquo;Come, move on
+      to the next; we know that a little too well.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;How do you like this one?&mdash;
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     &ldquo;'As I was journeying home from Nantes.'&rdquo;
+ </pre>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>:
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     &ldquo;'Weary, oh, weary, was I, was I.'&rdquo;
+ </pre>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That dates from my grandmother's time. Let's have another.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+ <i>The Grave-digger</i>:
+
+     &ldquo;'One day I went a-walking...'&rdquo;
+ </pre>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Hemp-dresser</i>:
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     &ldquo;'Along a lovely wood!'&rdquo;
+ </pre>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That one is too stupid! Our little children would n't take the trouble to
+      answer you. What! Are these all you know?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Grave-digger</i>: &ldquo;Oh, we shall sing you so many that you will
+      never be able to hear them all.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      In this way a full hour passed. As the two antagonists were champions of
+      the country round in the matter of songs, and as their store seemed
+      inexhaustible, the contest might last all night with ease, all the more
+      because the hemp-dresser, with a touch of malice, allowed several ballads
+      of ten, twenty, or thirty couplets to be sung through, feigning by his
+      silence to admit his defeat. Then the bridegroom's camp rejoiced and sang
+      aloud in chorus, and thought that this time the foe was worsted; but at
+      the first line of the last couplet, they heard the hoarse croaking of the
+      old hemp-dresser bellow forth the second rhyme. Then he cried:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You need not tire yourselves by singing such a long one, my children&mdash;we
+      know that one to our finger-tips.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Once or twice, however, the hemp-dresser made a wry face, contracted his
+      brow, and turned toward the expectant housewives with a baffled air. The
+      grave-digger was singing something so old that his adversary had forgotten
+      it, or perhaps had never even heard it; but instantly the good gossips
+      chanted the victorious refrain through their noses with voices shrill as a
+      sea-mew's, and the grave-digger, forced to surrender, went on to fresh
+      attempts.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It would have taken too long to wait for a decision of the victory. The
+      bride's party declared itself disposed to be merciful, provided that the
+      bride were given a present worthy of her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then began the song of the favors to a tune solemn as a church chant.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The men without sang together in bass voices:
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     &ldquo;'Open the door, true love,
+     Open the door; I have presents for you, love,
+     Oh, say not adieu, love.'&rdquo;
+ </pre>
+    <p>
+      To this the women answered from within in falsetto, with mournful voices:
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     &ldquo;'My father is sorry, my mother is sad,
+     And I am a maiden too kind by far
+     At such an hour my gate to unbar.'&rdquo;
+ </pre>
+    <p>
+      The men took up the first verse as far as the fourth line and modified it
+      thus:
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     &ldquo;'And a handkerchief new, love.'&rdquo;
+ </pre>
+    <p>
+      But, on behalf of the bride, the women answered in the same way as at
+      first.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      For twenty couplets, at least, the men enumerated all the
+      wedding-presents, always mentioning something new in the last line: a
+      handsome apron, pretty ribbons, a cloth dress, laces, a golden cross, and
+      even a hundred pins to complete the modest list of wedding-presents. The
+      refusal of the women could not be shaken, but at length the men decided to
+      speak of
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     &ldquo;A good husband, too, love.&rdquo;
+ </pre>
+    <p>
+      And the women answered, turning toward the bride and singing in unison
+      with the men:
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     &ldquo;'Open the door, true love,
+     Open the door;
+     Here's a sweetheart for you, love,
+     Pray let us enter, too, love.'&rdquo;
+ </pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0020" id="linklink2H_4_0020">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      III &mdash; The Wedding
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      IMMEDIATELY the hemp-dresser drew back the wooden bolt which barred the
+      door within. At this time it was still the only fastening known in most of
+      the dwellings of our hamlet. The groom's band burst into the bride's
+      house, but not without a struggle; for the young men quartered within, and
+      even the old hemp-dresser and the gossips, made it their duty to defend
+      the hearth. The spit-bearer, upheld by his supporters, had to plant the
+      roast before the fireplace. It was a regular battle, although people
+      abstained from striking, and there was no anger shown in this struggle.
+      But everybody was pushing and shoving so hard, and there was so much
+      playful pride in this display of muscular strength, that the results might
+      well have been serious, although they did not appear so across the laughs
+      and songs. The poor old hemp-dresser, fighting like a lion, was pinned to
+      the wall and squeezed by the crowd until his breath almost left him. More
+      than one champion was upset and trodden under foot involuntarily; more
+      than one hand, jammed against the spit, was covered with blood. These
+      games are dangerous, and latterly the accidents have been so severe that
+      our peasants have determined to allow the ceremony of the favors to fall
+      into disuse; I believe we saw the last at the marriage of François
+      Meillant, although there was no real struggle on that occasion.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The battle was earnest enough, however, at Germain's wedding. It was a
+      point of honor on one side to invade, on the other to defend, Mother
+      Guillette's hearth. The great spit was twisted like a screw beneath the
+      strong fists which fought for it A pistol-shot set fire to a small
+      quantity of hemp arranged in sheaves and laid on a wicker shelf near the
+      ceiling. This incident created a diversion, and while some of the company
+      crowded about to extinguish the sparks, the grave-digger, who had climbed
+      unbeknown into the garret, came down the chimney and seized the spit, at
+      the very moment when the ox-driver, who was defending it near the hearth,
+      raised it above his head to prevent it from being torn away. Some time
+      before the attack, the women had taken the precaution to put out the fire
+      lest in the struggle somebody should fall in and get burned. The jocular
+      grave-digger, in league with the ox-driver, grasped the trophy and tossed
+      it easily across the andirons. It was done! Nobody might interfere. The
+      grave-digger sprang to the middle of the room and lighted a few wisps of
+      straw, which he placed about the spit under pretense of cooking the roast,
+      for the goose was in pieces and the floor was strewn with its scattered
+      fragments.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then there was a great deal of laughter and much boastful dispute.
+      Everybody showed the marks of the blows he had received, and as it was
+      often a friend's hand that had struck them, there was no word of complaint
+      nor of quarreling. The hemp-dresser, half flattened out, kept rubbing the
+      small of his back and saying that, although it made small difference to
+      him, he protested against the ruse of his friend, the grave-digger, and
+      that if he had not been half dead, the hearth had never been captured so
+      easily. The women swept the floor and order was restored. The table was
+      covered with jugs of new wine. When the contestants had drunk together and
+      taken breath, the bridegroom was led to the middle of the chamber, and,
+      armed with a wand, he was obliged to submit to a fresh trial.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      During the struggle, the bride and three of her companions had been hidden
+      by her mother, godmother, and aunts, who had made the four girls sit down
+      in a remote corner of the room while they covered them with a large white
+      cloth. Three friends of Marie's height, with caps of a uniform size, were
+      chosen, so that when they were enveloped from head to toe by the cloth it
+      was impossible to tell them apart.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The bridegroom might not touch them, except with the tip of his staff, and
+      then merely to designate which he thought to be his wife. They allowed him
+      time enough to make an examination with no other help than his eyes
+      afforded, and the women, placed on either side, kept zealous watch lest
+      cheating should occur. Should he guess wrong, he might not dance, with his
+      bride, but only with her he had chosen by mistake.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When Germain stood in front of these ghosts wrapped in the same shroud, he
+      feared he should make a wrong choice; and, in truth, that had happened to
+      many another, so carefully and conscientiously were the precautions made.
+      His heart beat loud. Little Marie did her best to breathe hard and shake
+      the cloth a little, but her malicious companions followed her example, and
+      kept poking the cloth with their fingers, so that there were as many
+      mysterious signals as there were girls beneath the canopy. The square
+      head-dresses upheld the cloth so evenly that it was impossible to discern
+      the contour of a brow outlined by its folds.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After ten minutes' hesitation, Germain shut his eyes, commended his soul
+      to God, and stretched out the wand at random. It touched the forehead of
+      little Marie, who cast the cloth from her, and shouted with triumph. Then
+      it was his right to kiss her, and lifting her in his strong arms, he bore
+      her to the middle of the room, where together they opened the dance, which
+      lasted until two in the morning. The company separated to meet again at
+      eight. As many people had come from the country round, and as there were
+      not beds enough for everybody, each of the village maidens took to her bed
+      two or three other girls, while the men spread themselves pell-mell on the
+      hay in the barn-loft. You can imagine well that they had little sleep, for
+      they did nothing but wrestle and joke, and tell foolish stories. Properly,
+      there were three sleepless nights at weddings, and these we cannot regret.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At the time appointed for departure, when they had partaken of milk-soup,
+      seasoned with a strong dose of pepper to stimulate the appetite,&mdash;for
+      the wedding-feast gave promise of great bounty,&mdash;the guests assembled
+      in the farm-yard. Since our parish had been abolished, we had to go half a
+      league from home to receive the marriage blessing. It was cool and
+      pleasant weather, but the roads were in such wretched condition that
+      everybody was on horseback, and each man took a companion on his crupper,
+      whether she were young or old. Germain started on the gray, and the mare,
+      well-groomed, freshly shod, and decked out with ribbons, pranced about and
+      snorted fire from her nostrils. The husbandman went to the cottage for his
+      bride in company with his brother-in-law, Jacques, who rode the old gray,
+      and carried Mother Guillette on the crupper, while Germain returned to the
+      farm-yard in triumph, holding his dear little wife before him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then the merry cavalcade set out, escorted by the children, who ran ahead
+      and fired off their pistols to make the horses jump. Mother Maurice was
+      seated in a small cart, with Germain's three children and the fiddlers.
+      They led the march to the sound of their instruments. Petit-Pierre was so
+      handsome that his old grandmother was pride itself. But the eager child
+      did not stay long at her side. During a moment's halt made on the journey,
+      before passing through a difficult piece of road, he slipped away and ran
+      to beg his father to carry him in front on the gray.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, no,&rdquo; replied Germain, &ldquo;that will call forth some disagreeable joke;
+      we must n't do it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It's little that I care what the people of Saint Chartier say,&rdquo; said
+      little Marie. &ldquo;Take him up, Germain, please do; I shall be prouder of him
+      than I am of my wedding-gown.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain yielded, and the pretty trio darted into the crowd borne by the
+      triumphant gallop of the gray.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And so it was; the people of Saint Chartier, although they were very
+      sarcastic, and somewhat disdainful of the neighboring parishes which had
+      been annexed to theirs, never thought of laughing when they saw such a
+      handsome husband, such a lovely wife, and a child that a king's wife might
+      court. Petit-Pierre was all dressed in light blue cloth, with a smart red
+      waistcoat so short that it descended scarcely below his chin. The village
+      tailor had fitted his armholes so tight that he could not bring his two
+      little hands together. But, oh, how proud he was! He wore a round hat,
+      with a black-and-gold cord, and a peacock's plume which stuck out proudly
+      from a tuft of guinea feathers. A bunch of flowers, bigger than his head,
+      covered his shoulder, and ribbons fluttered to his feet The hemp-dresser,
+      who was also the barber and hair-dresser of the district, had cut his hair
+      evenly, by covering his head with a bowl, and clipping off the protruding
+      locks, an infallible method for guiding the shears. Thus arrayed, the poor
+      child was less poetic, certainly, than with his curls streaming in the
+      wind, and his Saint John Baptist's sheepskin about him; but he knew
+      nothing of this, and everybody admired him and said that he had quite the
+      air of a little man. His beauty triumphed over everything, for what is
+      there over which the exceeding beauty of childhood could not triumph?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      His little sister, Solange, had, for the first time in her life, a
+      peasant's cap in place of the calico hood which little girls wear until
+      they are two or three years old. And what a cap it was! Longer and larger
+      than the poor little thing's whole body. How beautiful she thought it! She
+      dared not even turn her head; so she kept quite still and thought the
+      people would take her for the bride.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As for little Sylvain, he was still in long clothes, and, fast asleep on
+      his grandmother's knees, he did not even know what a wedding was.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Germain looked at his children tenderly, and when they reached the town
+      hall, he said to his bride:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Marie, I have come here with a happier heart than I had the day when I
+      brought you home from the forest of Chanteloube, thinking that you could
+      never love me. I took you in my arms to put you on the ground as I do
+      here; but I thought that never again should we be mounted on the good gray
+      with the child on our knees. I love you so dearly, I love these little
+      creatures so dearly, I am so happy that you love me and that you love
+      them, and that my family love you, and I love your mother so well and all
+      my friends so well, and everybody else so well today, that I wish I had
+      three or four hearts to fill all of them; for surely one is too small to
+      hold so much love and so much happiness. It almost makes my stomach ache.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      There was a crowd at the door of the town hall and another at the church
+      to see the pretty bride. Why should we not tell about her dress? it became
+      her so well. Her muslin cap, without spot and covered with embroidery, had
+      lappets trimmed with lace. At that time peasant women never allowed a
+      single lock to be seen, and, although they conceal beneath their caps
+      splendid coils of hair tied up with tape to hold the coif in place, even
+      to-day it would be thought a scandal and a shame for them to show
+      themselves bareheaded to men. Nowadays, however, they allow a slender
+      braid to appear over their foreheads, and this improves their appearance
+      very much. Yet I regret the classic head-dress of my time; its spotless
+      laces next the bare skin gave an effect of pristine purity which seemed to
+      me very solemn; and when a face looked beautiful thus it was with a beauty
+      of which nothing can express the charm and unaffected majesty.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Little Marie wore her cap thus, and her forehead was so white and so pure
+      that it defied the whiteness of linen to cast it in the shade. Although
+      she had not closed an eye the night before, the morning air and, yet more,
+      the joy within of a soul pure as the heaven, and, more than all, a small
+      secret flame guarded with the modesty of girlhood, caused a bloom to mount
+      to her cheeks delicate as the peach-blossom in the first beams of an April
+      sun.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Her white scarf, modestly crossed over her breast, left visible only the
+      soft curves of a neck rounded like a turtle-dove's; her home-made cloth
+      gown of myrtle-green outlined her pretty figure, which looked already
+      perfect, yet which must still grow and develop, for she was but seventeen.
+      She wore an apron of violet silk with the bib our peasant women were so
+      foolish as to suppress, which added so much elegance and decency to the
+      breast. Nowadays they display their scarfs more proudly, but there is no
+      longer in their dress that delicate flower of the purity of long ago,
+      which made them look like Holbein's virgins. They are more forward and
+      more profuse in their courtesies. The good old custom used to be a kind of
+      staid reserve which made their rare smile deeper and more ideal.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      During the offertory, after the fashion of the day, Germain placed the
+      &ldquo;thirteen&rdquo;&mdash;that is to say, thirteen pieces of silver&mdash;in his
+      bride's hand. He slipped over her finger a silver ring of a form unchanged
+      for centuries, but which is replaced for henceforth by the golden
+      wedding-ring. As they walked out of church, Marie said in a low voice:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Is this really the ring I wanted? Is it the one I asked you for,
+      Germain?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; answered he, &ldquo;my Catherine wore it on her finger when she died.
+      There is but one ring for both my weddings.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Thank you, Germain,&rdquo; said the young woman, in a serious and impressive
+      tone. &ldquo;I shall die with it on, and if I go before you, you must keep it
+      for the marriage of your little Solange.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linklink2H_4_0021" id="linklink2H_4_0021">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      IV &mdash; The Cabbage
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      THEY mounted and returned very quickly to Belair. The feast was bountiful,
+      and, mingled with songs and dances, it lasted until midnight. For fourteen
+      hours the old people did not leave the table. The grave-digger did the
+      cooking, and did it very well. He was celebrated for this, and he would
+      leave his fire to come in and dance and sing before and after every
+      course. And yet this poor Father Bontemps was epileptic. Who would have
+      thought it? He was fresh and strong, and merry as a young man. One day we
+      found him in a ditch, struck down by his malady at nightfall. We carried
+      him home with us, in a wheelbarrow, and we spent all night in caring for
+      him. Three days afterward, he was at a wedding, singing like a thrush,
+      jumping like a kid, and bustling about after his old fashion. When he left
+      a marriage, he would go to dig a grave, and nail up a coffin. Then he
+      would become very grave, and though nothing of this appeared in his gay
+      humor, it left a melancholy impression which hastened the return of his
+      attacks. His wife was paralyzed, and had not stirred from her chair for
+      twenty years. His mother is living yet, at a hundred and forty, but he,
+      poor man, so happy and good and amusing, was killed last year by falling
+      from his loft to the sidewalk. Doubtless he died a victim to a fatal
+      attack of his disease, and, as was his habit, had hidden in the hay, so as
+      not to frighten and distress his family. In this tragic manner he ended a
+      life strange as his disposition&mdash;a medley of things sad and mad,
+      awful and gay; and, in the midst of all, his heart was ever good and his
+      nature kind.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Now we come to the third day of the wedding, the most curious of all,
+      which is kept to-day in all its vigor. We shall not speak of the roast
+      which they carry to the bridal bed; it is a very silly custom, and hurts
+      the self-respect of the bride, while it tends to ruin the modesty of the
+      attendant girls. Besides, I believe that it is practised in all the
+      provinces, and does not belong peculiarly to our own.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Just as the ceremony of the wedding favors is a symbol that the heart and
+      home of the bride are won, that of the cabbage is a symbol of the
+      fruit-fulness of marriage. When breakfast is over on the day after the
+      wedding, this fantastic representation begins. Originally of Gallic
+      derivation, it has passed through primitive Christianity, and little by
+      little it has become a kind of mystery, or droll morality-play of the
+      Middle Ages.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Two boys, the merriest and most intelligent of the company, disappear from
+      breakfast, and after costuming themselves, return escorted by dogs,
+      children, and pistol-shots. They represent a pair of beggars&mdash;husband
+      and wife&mdash;dressed in rags. The husband is the filthier of the two; it
+      is vice which has brought him so low; the wife is unhappy and degraded
+      only through the misdeeds of her husband.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      They are called the gardener and the gardener's wife, and they pretend it
+      is their duty to guard and care for the sacred cabbage. The husband has
+      several names, each with a meaning. Sometimes they call him the
+      &ldquo;scarecrow,&rdquo; because his head is covered with straw or hemp, and because
+      his legs and a portion of his body are surrounded with straw to hide his
+      nakedness, ill concealed by his rags. He has also a great belly, or hump,
+      constructed of straw or hay underneath his blouse. Then he is known as the
+      &ldquo;ragamuffin,&rdquo; on account of his covering of rags. Lastly he is termed the
+      &ldquo;infidel,&rdquo; and this is most significant of all, because by his cynicism
+      and his debauchery he is supposed to typify the opposite of every
+      Christian virtue.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He comes with his face all smeared with soot and the lees of wine, and
+      sometimes made yet more hideous by a grotesque mask. An earthenware cup,
+      notched and broken, or an old sabot attached to his girdle by a cord,
+      shows that he has come to beg for alms of wine. Nobody refuses him, and he
+      pretends to drink; then he pours the wine on the ground by way of
+      libation. At every step he falls, rolls in the mud, and feigns to be a
+      prey to the most shameful drunkenness. His poor wife runs after him, picks
+      him up, calls for help, arranges his hempen locks, which straggle forth in
+      unkempt wisps from beneath his filthy hat, sheds tears over her husband's
+      degradation, and pours forth pathetic reproaches.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Wretched man,&rdquo; she cries, &ldquo;see the misery to which your wickedness has
+      brought us. I have to spend all my time sewing and working for you,
+      mending your clothes. You tear and bedraggle yourself incessantly. You
+      have eaten up all my little property; our six children lie on straw, and
+      we are living in a stable with the beasts. Here we are forced to beg for
+      alms, and, besides, you are so ugly and vile and despicable that very soon
+      they will be tossing us bread as if we were dogs. Ah, my poor people, take
+      pity on us! Take pity on me! I have n't deserved my lot, and never had
+      woman a more dirty and detestable husband. Help me to pick him up, else
+      the wagons will run over him as they run over broken bottles, and I shall
+      be a widow, and that will end by killing me with grief, though all the
+      world says it would be an excellent riddance for me.&rdquo; Such is the part of
+      the gardener's wife, and her continued lamentations last during the entire
+      play. For it is a genuine spontaneous comedy acted on the spur of the
+      moment in the open air, along the roads and across the fields, aided by
+      every chance occurrence that presents itself. Everybody shares in the
+      acting, people within the wedding-party and people without, wayfarers and
+      dwellers in houses, for three or four hours of the day, as we shall see.
+      The theme is always the same, but the variations are infinite; and it is
+      here that we can see the instinct of mimicry, the abundance of droll
+      ideas, the fluency, the wit at repartee, and even the natural eloquence of
+      our peasants.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The rôle of gardener's wife is intrusted commonly to a slender man,
+      beardless and fresh of face, who can give a great appearance of truth to
+      his personification and plays the burlesque despair naturally enough to
+      make people sad and glad at once, as they are in real life. These thin,
+      beardless men are not rare among us, and, strangely enough, they are
+      sometimes most remarkable for their muscular strength.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When the wife's misfortunes have been explained, the young men of the
+      company try to persuade her to leave her drunken husband and to amuse
+      herself with them. They offer her their arms and drag her away. Little by
+      little she gives way; her spirits rise, and she begins to run about, first
+      with one and then with another, and grows more scandalous in her behavior:
+      a fresh &ldquo;morality&rdquo;; the ill-conduct of the husband excites and aggravates
+      the evil in the wife.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then the &ldquo;infidel&rdquo; wakes from his drunkenness. He looks about for his
+      companion, arms himself with a rope and a stick and rushes after her. They
+      make him run, they hide, they pass the wife from one to another, they try
+      to divert her attention and to deceive her jealous spouse. His friends try
+      to get him drunk. At length he catches his unfaithful wife, and wishes to
+      beat her. What is truest and most carefully portrayed in this play is that
+      the jealous husband never attacks the men who carry off his wife. He is
+      very polite and prudent with them, and wishes only to take vengeance on
+      the sinning woman, because she is supposed to be too feeble to offer
+      resistance.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At the moment, however, when he raises his stick and prepares his cord to
+      strike the delinquent, all the men in the party interpose and throw
+      themselves between husband and wife.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Don't strike her! Never strike your wife,&rdquo; is the formula repeated to
+      satiety during these scenes. They disarm the husband, and force him to
+      pardon and to kiss his wife, and soon he pretends to love her better than
+      ever. He walks along, his arm linked in hers, singing and dancing until,
+      in a new access of drunkenness, he rolls upon the ground, and then begin
+      all over again the lamentations of the wife, her discouragements, her
+      pretended unfaithfulness, her husband's jealousy, the interference of the
+      neighbors, and the reconciliation. In all this there is a simple and even
+      coarse lesson, which, though it savors strongly of its Middle-Age origin,
+      does not fail to fix its impression if not on the married folk, who are
+      too loving or too sensible to have need of it, at least upon the children
+      and the young people. The &ldquo;infidel,&rdquo; racing after young girls and
+      pretending to wish to kiss them, frightens and disgusts them to such a
+      degree that they fly in unaffected terror. His dirty face and his great
+      stick, harmless as it is, make the children shriek aloud. It is the comedy
+      of customs in their most elementary but their most striking state.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When this farce is well under way, people make ready to hunt for the
+      cabbage. They bring a stretcher and place upon it the &ldquo;infidel,&rdquo; armed
+      with a spade, a cord, and a large basket. Four powerful men raise him on
+      their shoulders. His wife follows on foot, and after her come the &ldquo;elders&rdquo;
+       in a body with serious and thoughtful looks; then the wedding-march begins
+      by couples to a step tuned to music. Pistol-shots begin anew, and dogs
+      bark louder than ever at the sight of the filthy &ldquo;infidel&rdquo; borne aloft in
+      triumph. The children swing incense in derision with sabots fastened at
+      the end of a cord.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But why this ovation to an object so repulsive? They are marching to the
+      capture of the sacred cabbage, emblem of the fruitfulness of marriage, and
+      it is this drunkard alone who can bear the symbolic plant in his hand.
+      Doubtless, there is in it a pre-Christian mystery which recalls the
+      Saturnalian feasts or some rout of the Bacchanals. Perhaps this &ldquo;infidel,&rdquo;
+       who is, at the same time, preeminently a gardener, is none other than
+      Priapus himself, god of gardens and of drunkenness, a divinity who must
+      have been pure and serious in his origin as is the mystery of birth, but
+      who has been degraded bit by bit through license of manners and
+      distraction of thought.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      However this may be, the triumphal procession arrives at the bride's
+      house, and enters the garden. Then they select the choicest cabbage, and
+      this is not done very quickly, for the old people keep consulting and
+      disputing interminably, each one pleading for the cabbage he thinks most
+      suitable. They put it to vote, and when the choice is made the gardener
+      fastens his cord to the stalk, and moves away as far as the size of the
+      garden permits. The gardener's wife takes care that the sacred vegetable
+      shall not be hurt in its fall. The wits of the wedding, the hemp-dresser,
+      the grave-digger, the carpenter, and the sabot-maker, form a ring about
+      the cabbage, for men who do not till the soil, but pass their lives in
+      other people's houses, are thought to be, and are really, wittier and more
+      talkative than simple farmhands. One digs, with a spade, a ditch deep
+      enough to uproot an oak. Another places on his nose a pair of wooden or
+      cardboard spectacles. He fulfils the duties of &ldquo;engineer,&rdquo; walks up and
+      down, constructs a plan, stares at the workmen through his glasses, plays
+      the pedant, cries out that everything will be spoiled, has the work
+      stopped and begun afresh as his fancy directs, and makes the whole
+      performance as long and ridiculous as he can. This is an addition to the
+      formula of an ancient ceremony held in mockery of theorists in general,
+      for peasants despise them royally, or from hatred of the surveyors who
+      decide boundaries and regulate taxes, or of the workmen employed on
+      bridges and causeways, who transform commons into highways, and suppress
+      old abuses which the peasants love. Be this as it may, this character in
+      the comedy is called the &ldquo;geometrician,&rdquo; and does his best to make himself
+      unbearable to those who are toiling with pickaxe and shovel.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After a quarter of an hour spent in mummery, and difficulties raised in
+      order to avoid cutting the roots, and to transplant the cabbage without
+      injury, while shovelfuls of dirt are tossed into the faces of the
+      onlookers,&mdash;so much the worse for him who does not retreat in time,
+      for were he bishop or prince he must receive the baptism of earth,&mdash;the
+      &ldquo;infidel&rdquo; pulls the rope, the &ldquo;infidel's wife&rdquo; holds her apron, and the
+      cabbage falls majestically amidst the applause of the spectators. Then a
+      basket is brought, and the &ldquo;infidel&rdquo; pair plant the cabbage therein with
+      every care and precaution. They surround it with fresh earth, and support
+      it with sticks and strings, such as city florists use for their splendid
+      potted camellias; they fix red apples to the points of the sticks, and
+      twist sprigs of thyme, sage, and laurel all about them; they bedeck the
+      whole with ribbons and streamers; they place the trophy upon the stretcher
+      with the &ldquo;infidel,&rdquo; whose duty it is to maintain its equilibrium and
+      preserve it from harm; and, at length, they move away from the garden in
+      good order and in marching step.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But when they are about to pass the gate, and again when they enter the
+      yard of the bridegroom's house, an imaginary obstacle blocks the way. The
+      bearers of the burden stagger, utter loud cries, retreat, advance once
+      more, and, as though crushed by a resistless force, they pretend to sink
+      beneath its weight. While this is going on, the bystanders shout loudly,
+      exciting and steadying this human team.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Slowly, slowly, my child. There, there, courage! Look out! Be patient!
+      Lower your head; the door is too low! Close up; it's too narrow! A little
+      more to the left; now to the right; on with you; don't be afraid; you 're
+      almost there.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Thus it is that in years of plentiful harvest, the ox-cart, loaded to
+      overflowing with hay or corn, is too broad or too high to enter the barn
+      door. Thus it is that the driver shouts at the strong beasts, to restrain
+      them or to urge them on; thus it is that with skill and mighty efforts
+      they force this mountain of riches beneath the rustic arch of triumph. It
+      is, above all, the last load, called &ldquo;the cart of sheaves,&rdquo; which requires
+      these precautions, for this is a rural festival, and the last sheaf lifted
+      from the last furrow is placed on the top of the cart-load ornamented with
+      ribbons and flowers, while the foreheads of the oxen and the whip of the
+      driver are decorated also. The triumphant and toilsome entry of the
+      cabbage into the house is a symbol of the prosperity and fruitfulness it
+      represents.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Safe within the bridegroom's yard, the cabbage is taken from its stretcher
+      and borne to the topmost peak of the house or barn. Whether it be a
+      chimney, a gable, or a dove-cote that crowns the roof, the burden must, at
+      any risk, be carried to the very highest point of the building. The
+      &ldquo;infidel&rdquo; accompanies it as far as this, sets it down securely, and waters
+      it with a great pitcher of wine, while a salvo of pistol-shots and
+      demonstrations of joy from the &ldquo;infidel's wife&rdquo; proclaim its inauguration.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Without delay, the same ceremony is repeated all over again. Another
+      cabbage is dug from the garden of the husband and is carried with the same
+      formalities and laid upon the roof which his wife has deserted to follow
+      him. These trophies remain in their places until the wind and the rain
+      destroy the baskets and carry away the cabbage. Yet their lives are long
+      enough to give some chance of fulfilment to the prophecies which the old
+      men and women make with bows and courtesies.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Beautiful cabbage,&rdquo; they say, &ldquo;live and flourish that our young bride may
+      have a fine baby before a year is over; for if you die too quickly it is a
+      sign of barrenness, and you will stick up there like an ill omen.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The day is already far gone when all these things are accomplished. All
+      that remains undone is to take home the godfathers and godmothers of the
+      newly married couple. When the so-called parents dwell at a distance, they
+      are accompanied by the music and the whole wedding procession as far as
+      the limits of the parish; there they dance anew on the highroad, and
+      everybody kisses them good-by. The &ldquo;infidel&rdquo; and his wife are then washed
+      and dressed decently, if the fatigue of their parts has not already driven
+      them away to take a nap.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Everybody was still dancing and singing and eating in the Town Hall of
+      Belair at midnight on this third day of the wedding when Germain was
+      married. The old men at table could not stir, and for good reason. They
+      recovered neither their legs nor their wits until dawn on the morrow.
+      While they were regaining their dwellings, silently and with uncertain
+      steps, Germain, proud and active, went out to hitch his oxen, leaving his
+      young wife to slumber until daylight. The lark, caroling as it mounted to
+      the skies, seemed to him the voice of his heart returning thanks to
+      Providence. The hoar-frost, sparkling on the leafless bushes, seemed to
+      him the whiteness of April flowers that comes before the budding leaves.
+      Everything in nature was laughing and happy for him. Little Pierre had
+      laughed and jumped so much the evening before that he did not come to help
+      lead his oxen; but Germain was glad to be alone. He fell on his knees in
+      the furrow he was about to plow afresh, and said his morning prayer with
+      such a burst of feeling that two tears rolled down his cheeks, still moist
+      with sweat.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Afar off he heard the songs of the boys from neighboring villages, who
+      were starting on their return home, singing again in their hoarse voices
+      the happy tunes of the night before.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      THE END. <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+
+
+
+
+
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+</pre>
+  </body>
+</html>
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Devil's Pool, by George Sand
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Devil's Pool
+
+Author: George Sand
+
+Illustrator: E. Abot
+
+Translator: Jane Minot Sedgwick And Ellery Sedgwick
+
+Release Date: July 4, 2007 [EBook #21993]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEVIL'S POOL ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+THE DEVIL'S POOL
+
+By George Sand
+
+
+Translated From The French By Jane Minot Sedgwick And Ellery Sedgwick
+
+
+With An Etching By E. Abot
+
+1901
+
+
+
+
+THE DEVIL'S POOL
+
+
+
+THE AUTHOR TO THE READER
+
+     _A la sueur de ton visaige,
+        Tu gagnerais ta pauvre vie.
+     Apres long travail et usaige,
+        Voicy la mort qui te convie._ *
+
+THIS quaint old French verse, written under one of Holbein's pictures,
+is profoundly melancholy. The engraving represents a laborer driving his
+plow through the middle of a field. Beyond him stretches a vast horizon,
+dotted with wretched huts; the sun is sinking behind the hill. It is the
+end of a hard day's work. The peasant is old, bent, and clothed in rags.
+He is urging onward a team of four thin and exhausted horses; the
+plowshare sinks into a stony and ungrateful soil. One being only is
+active and alert in this scene of toil and sorrow. It is a fantastic
+creature. A skeleton armed with a whip, who acts as plowboy to the old
+laborer, and running along through the furrow beside the terrified
+horses, goads them on. This is the specter Death, whom Holbein has
+introduced allegorically into that series of religious and philosophic
+subjects, at once melancholy and grotesque, entitled "The Dance of
+Death."
+
+   * In toil and sorrow thou shalt eat
+     The bitter bread of poverty.
+     After the burden and the heat,
+     Lo! it is Death who calls for thee.
+
+In this collection, or rather this mighty composition, where Death, who
+plays his part on every page, is the connecting link and predominating
+thought, Holbein has called up kings, popes, lovers, gamesters,
+drunkards, nuns, courtesans, thieves, warriors, monks, Jews, and
+travelers,--all the people of his time and our own; and everywhere the
+specter Death is among them, taunting, threatening, and triumphing. He
+is absent from one picture only, where Lazarus, lying on a dunghill at
+the rich man's door, declares that the specter has no terrors for him;
+probably because he has nothing to lose, and his existence is already a
+life in death.
+
+Is there comfort in this stoical thought of the half-pagan Christianity
+of the Renaissance, and does it satisfy religious souls? The upstart,
+the rogue, the tyrant, the rake, and all those haughty sinners who make
+an ill use of life, and whose steps are dogged by Death, will be surely
+punished; but can the reflection that death is no evil make amends for
+the long hardships of the blind man, the beggar, the madman, and the
+poor peasant? No! An inexorable sadness, an appalling fatality brood
+over the artist's work. It is like a bitter curse, hurled against the
+fate of humanity.
+
+Holbein's faithful delineation of the society in which he lived is,
+indeed, painful satire. His attention was engrossed by crime and
+calamity; but what shall we, who are artists of a later date, portray?
+Shall we look to find the reward of the human beings of to-day in
+the contemplation of death, and shall we invoke it as the penalty of
+unrighteousness and the compensation of suffering?
+
+No, henceforth, our business is not with death, but with life. We
+believe no longer in the nothingness of the grave, nor in safety bought
+with the price of a forced renunciation; life must be enjoyed in order
+to be fruitful. Lazarus must leave his dunghill, so that the poor need
+no longer exult in the death of the rich. All must be made happy, that
+the good fortune of a few may not be a crime and a curse. As the laborer
+sows his wheat, he must know that he is helping forward the work of
+life, instead of rejoicing that Death walks at his side. We may
+no longer consider death as the chastisement of prosperity or the
+consolation of distress, for God has decreed it neither as the
+punishment nor the compensation of life. Life has been blessed by Him,
+and it is no longer permissible for us to leave the grave as the only
+refuge for those whom we are unwilling to make happy.
+
+There are some artists of our own day, who, after a serious survey of
+their surroundings, take pleasure in painting misery, the sordidness of
+poverty, and the dunghill of Lazarus. This may belong to the domain of
+art and philosophy; but by depicting poverty as so hideous, so degraded,
+and sometimes so vicious and criminal, do they gain their end, and is
+that end as salutary as they would wish? We dare not pronounce judgment.
+They may answer that they terrify the unjust rich man by pointing out to
+him the yawning pit that lies beneath the frail covering of wealth; just
+as in the time of the Dance of Death, they showed him his gaping grave,
+and Death standing ready to fold him in an impure embrace. Now, they
+show him the thief breaking open his doors, and the murderer stealthily
+watching his sleep. We confess we cannot understand how we can reconcile
+him to the human nature he despises, or make him sensible of the
+sufferings of the poor wretch whom he dreads, by showing him this
+wretch in the guise of the escaped convict or the nocturnal burglar. The
+hideous phantom Death, under the repulsive aspect in which he has been
+represented by Holbein and his predecessors, gnashing his teeth and
+playing the fiddle, has been powerless to convert the wicked and console
+their victims. And does not our literature employ the same means as the
+artists of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance?
+
+The revelers of Holbein fill their glasses in a frenzy to dispel the
+idea of Death, who is their cup-bearer, though they do not see him. The
+unjust rich of our own day demand cannon and barricades to drive out
+the idea of an insurrection of the people which Art shows them as slowly
+working in the dark, getting ready to burst upon the State. The Church
+of the Middle Ages met the terrors of the great of the earth with the
+sale of indulgences. The government of to-day soothes the uneasiness of
+the rich by exacting from them large sums for the support of policemen,
+jailors, bayonets, and prisons.
+
+Albert Durer, Michael Angelo, Holbein, Callot, and Goya have made
+powerful satires on the evils of their times and countries, and their
+immortal works are historical documents of unquestionable value. We
+shall not refuse to artists the right to probe the wounds of society
+and lay them bare to our eyes; but is the only function of art still
+to threaten and appall? In the literature of the mysteries of iniquity,
+which talent and imagination have brought into fashion, we prefer the
+sweet and gentle characters, which can attempt and effect conversions,
+to the melodramatic villains, who inspire terror; for terror never cures
+selfishness, but increases it.
+
+We believe that the mission of art is a mission of sentiment and love,
+that the novel of to-day should take the place of the parable and the
+fable of early times, and that the artist has a larger and more poetic
+task than that of suggesting certain prudential and conciliatory
+measures for the purpose of diminishing the fright caused by his
+pictures. His aim should be to render attractive the objects he has at
+heart, and, if necessary, I have no objection to his embellishing them
+a little. Art is not the study of positive reality, but the search for
+ideal truth, and the "Vicar of Wakefield" was a more useful and healthy
+book than the "Paysan Perverti," or the "Liaisons Dangereuses."
+
+Forgive these reflections of mine, kind reader, and let them stand as
+a preface, for there will be no other to the little story I am going
+to relate to you. My tale is to be so short and so simple, that I felt
+obliged to make you my apologies for it beforehand, by telling you what
+I think of the literature of terror.
+
+I have allowed myself to be drawn into this digression for the sake of a
+laborer; and it is the story of a laborer which I have been meaning to
+tell you, and which I shall now tell you at once.
+
+
+
+
+I -- The Tillage of the Soil
+
+I HAD just been looking long and sadly at Holbein's plowman, and was
+walking through the fields, musing on rustic life and the destiny of
+the husbandman. It is certainly tragic for him to spend his days and his
+strength delving in the jealous earth, that so reluctantly yields up her
+rich treasures when a morsel of coarse black bread, at the end of the
+day's work, is the sole reward and profit to be reaped from such arduous
+toil. The wealth of the soil, the harvests, the fruits, the splendid
+cattle that grow sleek and fat in the luxuriant grass, are the property
+of the few, and but instruments of the drudgery and slavery of the many.
+The man of leisure seldom loves, for their own sake, the fields and
+meadows, the landscape, or the noble animals which are to be converted
+into gold for his use. He comes to the country for his health or for
+change of air, but goes back to town to spend the fruit of his vassal's
+labor.
+
+On the other hand, the peasant is too abject, too wretched, and too
+fearful of the future to enjoy the beauty of the country and the charms
+of pastoral life. To him, also, the yellow harvest-fields, the rich
+meadows, the fine cattle represent bags of gold; but he knows that
+only an infinitesimal part of their contents, insufficient for his daily
+needs, will ever fall to his share. Yet year by year he must fill those
+accursed bags, to please his master and buy the right of living on his
+land in sordid wretchedness. Yet nature is eternally young, beautiful,
+and generous. She pours forth poetry and beauty on all creatures and
+all plants that are allowed free development.
+
+She owns the secret of happiness, of which no one has ever robbed her.
+The happiest of men would be he who, knowing the full meaning of his
+labor, should, while working with his hands, find his happiness and his
+freedom in the exercise of his intelligence, and, having his heart in
+unison with his brain, should at once understand his own work and love
+that of God, The artist has such delights as these in contemplating and
+reproducing the beauties of nature; but if his heart be true and tender,
+his pleasure is disturbed when he sees the miseries of the men who
+people this paradise of earth. True happiness will be theirs when mind,
+heart, and hand shall work in concert in the sight of Heaven, and there
+shall be a sacred harmony between God's goodness and the joys of his
+creatures. Then, instead of the pitiable and frightful figure of Death
+stalking, whip in hand, across the fields, the painter of allegories
+may place beside the peasant a radiant angel, sowing the blessed grain
+broadcast in the smoking furrow. The dream of a serene, free, poetic,
+laborious, and simple life for the tiller of the soil is not so
+impossible that we should banish it as a chimera. The sweet, sad words
+of Virgil: "Oh, happy the peasants of the field, if they knew their own
+blessings!" is a regret, but, like all regrets, it is also a prophecy.
+The day will come when the laborer too may be an artist, and may at
+least feel what is beautiful, if he cannot express it,--a matter of far
+less importance. Do not we know that this mysterious poetic intuition
+is already his, in the form of instinct and vague reverie? Among those
+peasants who possess some of the comforts of life, and whose moral
+and intellectual development is not entirely stifled by extreme
+wretchedness, pure happiness that can be felt and appreciated exists
+in the elementary stage; and, moreover, since poets have already raised
+their voices out of the lap of pain and of weariness, why should we say
+that the labor of the hands excludes the working of the soul? Without
+doubt this exclusion is the common result of excessive toil and of deep
+misery; but let it not be said that when men shall work moderately and
+usefully there will be nothing but bad workers and bad poets. The man
+who draws in noble joy from the poetic feeling is a true poet, though he
+has never written a verse all his life.
+
+My thoughts had flown in this direction, without my perceiving that
+my confidence in the capacity of man for education was strengthened by
+external influences. I was walking along the edge of a field, which some
+peasants were preparing to sow. The space was vast as that in Holbein's
+picture; the landscape, too, was vast and framed in a great sweep of
+green, slightly reddened by the approach of autumn. Here and there in
+the great russet field, slender rivulets of water left in the furrows by
+the late rains sparkled in the sunlight like silver threads. The day was
+clear and mild, and the soil, freshly cleft by the plowshare, sent up
+a light steam. At the other extremity of the field, an old man, whose
+broad shoulders and stern face recalled Holbein's plowman, but whose
+clothes carried no suggestion of poverty, was gravely driving his plow
+of antique shape, drawn by two placid oxen, true patriarchs of the
+meadow, tall and rather thin, with pale yellow coats and long, drooping
+horns. They were those old workers who, through long habit, have grown
+to be _brothers_, as they are called in our country, and who, when one
+loses the other, refuse to work with a new comrade, and pine away with
+grief. People who are unfamiliar with the country call the love of the
+ox for his yoke-fellow a fable. Let them come and see in the corner of
+the stable one of these poor beasts, thin and wasted, restlessly lashing
+his lean flanks with his tail, violently breathing with mingled terror
+and disdain on the food offered him, his eyes always turned toward the
+door, scratching with his hoof the empty place at his side, sniffing the
+yokes and chains which his fellow used to wear, and incessantly calling
+him with melancholy lowings. The ox-herd will say: "There is a pair
+of oxen gone;' this one will work no more, for his brother is dead. We
+ought to fatten him for the market, but he will not eat, and will soon
+starve himself to death." The old laborer worked slowly, silently, and
+without waste of effort His docile team were in no greater haste than
+he; but, thanks to the undistracted steadiness of his toil and the
+judicious expenditure of his strength, his furrow was as soon plowed as
+that of his son, who was driving, at some distance from him, four less
+vigorous oxen through a more stubborn and stony piece of ground.
+
+My attention was next caught by a fine spectacle, a truly noble subject
+for a painter. At the other end of the field a fine-looking youth was
+driving a magnificent team of four pairs of young oxen, through whose
+somber coats glanced a ruddy, glow-like name. They had the short, curry
+heads that belong to the wild bull, the same large, fierce eyes and
+jerky movements; they worked in an abrupt, nervous way that showed how
+they still rebelled against the yoke and goad, and trembled with anger
+as they obeyed the authority so recently imposed. They were what is
+called "newly yoked" oxen. The man who drove them had to clear a corner
+of the field that had formerly been given up to pasture, and was
+filled with old tree-stumps; and his youth and energy, and his eight
+half-broken animals, hardly sufficed for the Herculean task.
+
+A child of six or seven years old, lovely as an angel, wearing round his
+shoulders, over his blouse, a sheepskin that made him look like a little
+Saint John the Baptist out of a Renaissance picture, was running along
+in the furrow beside the plow, pricking the flanks of the oxen with a
+long, light goad but slightly sharpened. The spirited animals quivered
+under the child's light touch, making their yokes and head-bands creak,
+and shaking the pole violently. Whenever a root stopped the advance
+of the plowshare, the laborer would call every animal by name in his
+powerful voice, trying to calm rather than to excite them; for the oxen,
+irritated by the sudden resistance, bounded, pawed the ground with their
+great cloven hoofs, and would have jumped aside and dragged the plow
+across the fields, if the young man had not kept the first four in order
+with his voice and goad, while the child controlled the four others.
+The little fellow shouted too, but the voice which he tried to make of
+terrible effect, was as sweet as his angelic face. The whole scene was
+beautiful in its grace and strength; the landscape, the man, the child,
+the oxen under the yoke; and in spite of the mighty struggle by which
+the earth was subdued, a deep feeling of peace and sweetness reigned
+over all. Each time that an obstacle was surmounted and the plow resumed
+its even, solemn progress, the laborer, whose pretended violence was
+but a trial of his strength, and an outlet for his energy, instantly
+regained that serenity which is the right of simple souls, and looked
+with fatherly pleasure toward his child, who turned to smile back at
+him. Then the young father would raise his manly voice in the solemn
+and melancholy chant that ancient tradition transmits, not indeed to all
+plowmen indiscriminately, but to those who are most perfect in the art
+of exciting and sustaining the spirit of cattle while at work. This
+song, which was probably sacred in its origin, and to which mysterious
+influences must once have been attributed, is still thought to
+possess the virtue of putting animals on their mettle, allaying their
+irritation, and of beguiling the weariness of their long, hard toil.
+It is not enough to guide them skilfully, to trace a perfectly straight
+furrow, and to lighten their labor by raising the plowshare or driving
+it into the earth; no man can be a consummate husbandman who does not
+know how to sing to his oxen, and that is an art that requires taste
+and especial gifts. To tell the truth, this chant is only a recitative,
+broken off and taken up at pleasure. Its irregular form and its
+intonations that violate all the rules of musical art make it impossible
+to describe.
+
+But it is none the less a noble song, and so appropriate is it to the
+nature of the work it accompanies, to the gait of the oxen, to the peace
+of the fields, and to the simplicity of the men who sing it, that no
+genius unfamiliar with the tillage of the earth, and no man except an
+accomplished laborer of our part of the country, could repeat it. At the
+season of the year when there is no work or stir afoot except that of
+the plowman, this strong, sweet refrain rises like the voice of the
+breeze, to which the key it is sung in gives it some resemblance. Each
+phrase ends with a long trill, the final note of which is held with
+incredible strength of breath, and rises a quarter of a tone, sharping
+systematically. It is barbaric, but possesses an unspeakable charm, and
+anybody, once accustomed to hear it, cannot conceive of another song
+taking its place at the same hour and in the same place, without
+striking a discord.
+
+So it was that I had before my eyes a picture the reverse of that of
+Holbein, although the scene was similar. Instead of a wretched old man,
+a young and active one; instead of a team of weary and emaciated horses,
+four yoke of robust and fiery oxen; instead of death, a beautiful
+child; instead of despair and destruction, energy and the possibility of
+happiness.
+
+Then the old French verse, "A la sueur de ton vis-aige," etc., and
+Virgil's "O fortunatos... agricolas," returned to my mind, and seeing
+this lovely child and his father, under such poetic conditions, and with
+so much grace and strength, accomplish a task full of such grand
+and solemn suggestions, I was conscious of deep pity and involuntary
+respect. Happy the peasant of the fields! Yes, and so too should I be
+in his place, if my arm and voice could be endowed with sudden strength,
+and I could help to make Nature fruitful, and sing of her gifts, without
+ceasing to see with my eyes or understand with my brain harmonious
+colors and sounds, delicate shades and graceful outlines; in short, the
+mysterious beauty of all things. And above all, if my heart continued
+to beat in concert with the divine sentiment that presided over the
+immortal sublimity of creation.
+
+But, alas! this man has never understood the mystery of beauty; this
+child will never understand it. God forbid that I should not think them
+superior to the animals which are subject to them, or that they have not
+moments of rapturous insight that soothe their toil and lull their cares
+to sleep. I see the seal of the Lord upon their noble brows, for they
+were born to inherit the earth far more truly than those who have bought
+and paid for it. The proof that they feel this is that they cannot be
+exiled with impunity, that they love the soil they have watered with
+their tears, and that the true peasant dies of homesickness under the
+arms of a soldier far from his native field. But he lacks some of my
+enjoyments, those pure delights which should be his by right, as a
+workman in that immense temple which the sky only is vast enough
+to embrace. He lacks the consciousness of his sentiment. Those who
+condemned him to slavery from his mother's womb, being unable to rob him
+of his vague dreams, took away from him the power of reflection.
+
+Yet, imperfect being that he is, sentenced to eternal childhood, he is
+nobler than the man in whom knowledge has stifled feeling. Do not set
+yourselves above him, you who believe yourselves invested with a lawful
+and inalienable right to rule over him, for your terrible mistake shows
+that your brain has destroyed your heart, and that you are the blindest
+and most incomplete of men! I love the simplicity of his soul more than
+the false lights of yours; and if I had to narrate the story of his
+life, the pleasure I should take in bringing out the tender and touching
+side of it would be greater than your merit in painting the degradation
+and contempt into which he is cast by your social code.
+
+I knew the young man and the beautiful child; I knew their history, for
+they had a history. Everybody has his own, and could make the romance
+of his life interesting, if he could but understand it. Although but a
+peasant and a laborer, Germain had always been aware of his duties and
+affections. He had related them to me clearly and ingenuously, and I had
+listened with interest. After some time spent in watching him plow, it
+occurred to me that I might write his story, though that story were as
+simple, as straightforward, and unadorned as the furrow he was tracing.
+
+Next year that furrow will be filled and covered by a fresh one. Thus
+disappear most of the footprints made by man in the field of human life.
+A little earth obliterates them, and the furrows we have dug succeed one
+another like graves in a cemetery. Is not the furrow of the laborer of
+as much value as that of the idler, even if that idler, by some absurd
+chance, have made a little noise in the world, and left behind him an
+abiding name?
+
+I mean, if possible, to save from oblivion the furrow of Germain,
+the skilled husbandman. He will never know nor care, but I shall take
+pleasure in my talk.
+
+
+
+
+II -- Father Maurice
+
+"GERMAIN," said his father-in-law one day, "you must decide about
+marrying again. It is almost two years now since you lost my daughter,
+and your eldest boy is seven years old! You are almost thirty, my boy,
+and you know that in our country a man is considered too old to go to
+housekeeping again after that age; you have three nice children, and
+thus far they have not proved a burden to us at all. My wife and my
+daughter-in-law have looked after them as well as they could, and loved
+them as they ought. Here is Petit-Pierre almost grown up. He goads the
+oxen very well; he knows how to look after the cattle; and he is strong
+enough to drive the horses to the trough. So it is not he that worries
+us. But the other two, love them though we do, God knows the poor little
+innocents give us trouble enough this year; my daughter-in-law is about
+to lie in, and she has yet another baby to attend to. When the child
+we are expecting comes, she will not be able to look after your little
+Solange, and above all your Sylvain, who is not four years old, and who
+is never quiet day or night. He has a restless disposition like yours;
+that will make a good workman of him, but it makes a dreadful child, and
+my old wife cannot run fast enough to save him when he almost tumbles
+into the ditch, or when he throws himself in front of the tramping
+cattle. And then with this other that my daughter-in-law is going to
+bring into the world, for a month at least her next older child will
+fall on my wife's hands. Besides, your children worry us, and give us
+too much to do; we hate to see children badly looked after, and when we
+think of the accidents that may befall them, for want of care, we cannot
+rest. So you need another wife, and I another daughter-in-law. Think
+this over, my son. I have called it to your mind before. Time flies,
+and the years will not wait a moment for you. It is your duty to your
+children and to the rest of us, who wish all well at home, to marry as
+soon as you can." "Very well, father," answered the son-in-law, "if you
+really wish it, I must do as you say. But I do not wish to hide it from
+you that it will make me very sad, and that I hardly wish tor anything
+but to drown myself. We know who it is we lose, we never know whom we
+find. I had a good wife, a pretty wife, sweet, brave, good to her father
+and mother, good to her husband, good to her children, good to toil in
+the fields and in the house, well fitted to work,--in short, good for
+everything; and when you had given her to me, and I took her, we did
+not place it among our promises that I should go and forget about her if
+I had the misfortune to lose her."
+
+"What you say shows your good heart, Germain," answered Father Maurice.
+"I know that you loved my daughter and that you made her happy, and
+that had you been able to satisfy Death by going in her place, Catherine
+would be alive today, and you would be in the graveyard. She deserved
+all your love, and if you are not consoled, neither are we. But I do not
+speak to you of forgetting her: God wished her to leave us, and we do
+not let a day go by without telling him in our prayers and thoughts,
+and words and actions, that we keep her memory and still sorrow for her
+loss. But if she could speak to you from the other world, and let you
+know what she wishes, she would tell you to find a mother for her little
+orphans. So the question is to find a woman who will be worthy to take
+her place. It will not be easy, but it is not impossible. And when
+we shall find her for you, you will love her as you used to love my
+daughter, because you are a good man, and because you will be thankful
+to her for helping us and for loving your children."
+
+"Very well, Father Maurice, I shall do as you wish, as I have always
+done."
+
+"It is only justice, my son, to say that you have always listened to the
+friendly advice and good judgment of the head of the house. So let us
+consult about your choice of a new wife. First, I don't advise you to
+take a young girl. That is not what you need. Youth is careless, and, as
+it is hard work to bring up three children, especially when they are of
+another bed, you must have a good soul, wise and gentle, and well used
+to work. If your wife is not about the same age as you, she will have
+no reason to accept such a duty. She will find you too old and your
+children too young. She will be complaining, and your children will
+suffer."
+
+"This is just what makes me uneasy. Suppose the poor little things
+should be badly treated, hated, beaten?"
+
+"God grant not," answered the old man. "But bad women are more rare with
+us than good, and we shall be stupid if we cannot pick out somebody who
+will suit us."
+
+"That is true, father. There are good girls in our village. There is
+Louise, Sylvaine, Claudie, Marguerite--yes, anybody you want."
+
+"Gently, gently, my boy. All these girls are too young, or too poof,
+or too pretty; for surely we must think of that top, my son. A pretty
+woman is not always as well behaved as another!"
+
+"Then you wish me to take an ugly wife?" said Germain, a little uneasy.
+
+"No, not ugly at all, for this woman will bear you other children, and
+there is nothing more miserable than to have children who are ugly and
+weak and sickly. But a woman still fresh and in good health, who is
+neither pretty nor ugly, would suit you exactly."
+
+"I am quite sure," said Germain, smiling rather sadly, "that to get
+such a woman as you wish, you must have her made to order. All the more
+because you don't wish her to be poor, and the rich are not easy to get,
+particularly for a widower."
+
+"And suppose she were a widow herself, Germain? A widow without children
+and with a good portion?"
+
+"For the moment, I cannot think of anybody like this in our parish."
+
+"Nor I either. But there are others elsewhere."
+
+"You have somebody in mind, father. Then tell me, at once, who it is."
+
+
+
+
+III -- Germain, the Skilled Husbandman
+
+"YES, I have somebody in mind," replied Father Maurice. "It is a
+Leonard, the widow of a Guerin. She lives at Fourche."
+
+"I know neither the woman nor the place," answered Germain, resigned,
+but growing more and more melancholy.
+
+"Her name is Catherine, like your dead wife's."
+
+"Catherine? Yes, I shall be glad to have to pronounce that name,
+Catherine; and yet if I cannot love one as much as the other, it will
+pain me all the more. It will bring her to my mind more often."
+
+"I tell you, you will love her. She is a good soul, a woman with a warm
+heart. I have not seen her for a long time. She was not an ugly girl
+then. But she is no longer young. She is thirty-two. She comes of a good
+family, honest people all of them, and for property she has eight or ten
+thousand francs in land which she would sell gladly in order to invest
+in the place where she settles. For she, too, is thinking of marrying
+again, and I know that if your character pleases her, she will not be
+dissatisfied with your situation."
+
+"So you have made all the arrangements?"
+
+"Yes, except that I have not had an opinion from either of you, and that
+is what you must ask each other when you meet. The woman's father is
+a distant connection of mine, and he has been a good friend to me. You
+know Father Leonard well?"
+
+"Yes, I have seen you two talking at the market, and at the last you
+lunched together. Then it was about her that he spoke to you so long?"
+
+"Certainly. He watched you selling your cattle and saw that you drove
+a shrewd bargain, and that you were a good-looking fellow and appeared
+active and intelligent; and when I told him what a good fellow you were
+and how well you have behaved toward us, without one word of vexation or
+anger during the eight years we have been living and working together,
+he took it into his head to marry you to his daughter. This suits me,
+too, I admit, when I think of her good reputation and the honesty of her
+family and the prosperous condition I know her affairs are in."
+
+"I see, Father Maurice, that you have an eye to money."
+
+"Of course I do; you have, too, have you not?"
+
+"I do look toward it, if you wish, for your sake; but you know that,
+for my own part, I don't worry whether I gain or not in what we make. I
+don't understand about profit-sharing; I have no head for that sort
+of thing. I understand the ground; I understand cattle, horses, carts,
+sowing, threshing, and provender. As for sheep, and vineyards, and
+vegetables, petty profits, and fine gardening, you know that is your
+son's business. I don't have much to do with it. As to money, my memory
+is short, and I should rather give up everything than fight about what
+is yours and what is mine. I should be afraid of making some mistake and
+claiming what does not belong to me, and if business were not so clear
+and simple I should never find my way in it."
+
+"So much the worse, my son; and this is the reason I wish you to have a
+wife with a clear head to fill my place when I am gone. You never wished
+to understand our accounts, and this might lead you into a quarrel with
+my son, when you don't have me any longer to keep you in harmony and
+decide what is each one's share."
+
+"May you live long, Father Maurice. But do not worry about what will
+happen when you die. I shall never quarrel with your son. I trust
+Jacques as I do you; and as I have no property of my own, and all that
+might accrue to me comes from your daughter and belongs to our children,
+I can rest easy, and you, too. Jacques would never rob his sister's
+children for the sake of his own, for he loves them all equally."
+
+"You are right, Germain. Jacques is a good son, a good brother, and a
+man who loves the truth. But Jacques may die before you, before your
+children grow up; and in a family we must always remember never to
+leave children without a head to look after them and govern their
+disagreements; otherwise, the lawyer-people mix themselves up in it,
+stir them up to fight, and make them eat up everything in law-suits.
+So we ought not to think of bringing home another person, man or woman,
+without remembering that some day or other that person may have to
+control the behavior and business of twenty or thirty children and
+grandchildren, sons-in-law and daughters-in-law. We never know how big a
+family can grow, and when a hive is so full that the bees must form new
+swarms, each one wishes to carry off her share of the honey. When I took
+you for my son, although my daughter was rich and you were poor, I never
+reproached her for choosing you. I saw that you were a hard worker, and
+I knew very well that the best fortune for people in such a country as
+ours is a pair of arms and a heart like yours. When a man brings these
+into a family, he brings enough. But with a woman it is different. Her
+work indoors saves, but it does not gain. Besides, now that you are
+a father, looking for a second wife, you must remember that your new
+children will have no claim on the property of your children by another
+wife; and if you should happen to die they might suffer very much--at
+least, if your wife had no money in her own right. And then the children
+which you will add to our colony will cost something to bring up. If
+that fell on us alone, we should surely take care of them without a word
+of complaint; but the comfort of everybody would suffer, and your eldest
+children would bear their share of hardship. When families grow too
+large, if money does not keep pace, misery comes, no matter how bravely
+you bear up. This is what I wished to say, Germain; think it over,
+and try to make the widow Guerin like you; for her discretion and her
+dollars will help us now and make us feel easy about the future."
+
+"That is true, Father. I shall try to please her and to like her."
+
+"To do that you must go to find her, and see her."
+
+"At her own place? At Fourche? That is a great way from here, is it not?
+And we scarcely have time to run off at this season of the year."
+
+"When it is a question of a love-match you must make up your mind to
+lose time, but when it is a sensible marriage of two people, who take
+no sudden fancies and know what they want, it is very soon decided.
+To-morrow is Saturday; you will make your day's work a little shorter
+than usual. You must start after dinner about two o'clock. You will be
+at Fourche by nightfall. The moon rises early. The roads are good, and
+it is not more than three leagues distant. It is near Magnier. Besides,
+you will take the mare."
+
+"I had just as lief go afoot in this cool weather."
+
+"Yes, but the mare is pretty, and a suitor looks better when he comes
+well mounted. You must put on your new clothes and carry a nice present
+of game to Father Leonard. You will come from me and talk with him, pass
+all of Sunday with his daughter, and come back Monday morning with a yes
+or no."
+
+"Very well," answered Germain calmly, and yet he did not feel very calm.
+
+Germain had always lived soberly, as industrious peasants do. Married
+at twenty, he had loved but one woman in his life, and after her death,
+impulsive and gay as his nature was, he had never played nor trifled
+with another. He had borne a real sorrow faithfully in his heart, and
+it was not without misgiving nor without sadness that he yielded to his
+father-in-law; but that father had always governed the family wisely,
+and Germain, entirely devoted as he was to the common welfare and so,
+by consequence, to the head of the house, who represented it, could not
+understand that he might have wronged his own good sense and hurt the
+interests of all. Nevertheless, he was sad. Few days went by when he did
+not cry in secret, for his wife, and although loneliness began to weigh
+on him, he was more afraid of entering into a new marriage than desirous
+of finding a support in his sorrow. He had a vague idea that love might
+have consoled him by coming to him of a sudden, for this is the only way
+love can console. We never find it when we seek it; it comes over us
+unawares.
+
+This cold-blooded scheme of marriage that Father Maurice had opened to
+him, this unknown woman he was to take for his bride, perhaps even all
+that had been said to him of her virtue and good sense, made him pause
+to think. And he went away musing as men do whose thoughts are too few
+to divide into hostile factions, not scraping up fine arguments for
+rebellion and selfishness but suffering from a dull grief, submissive to
+ills from which there is no escape.
+
+Meanwhile, Father Maurice had returned to the farm, while Germain,
+between sunset and dark, spent the closing hour of the day in repairing
+gaps the sheep had made in the hedge of a yard near the farm-buildings.
+He lifted up the branches of the thorn-bushes and held them in place
+with clods of earth, whilst the thrushes chattered in the neighboring
+thicket and seemed to call to him to hurry, for they were eager to come
+and see his work as soon as he had gone.
+
+
+
+
+IV -- Mother Guillette
+
+FATHER MAURICE found at his house an old neighbor who had come to talk
+with his wife, seeking at the same time to secure a few embers to light
+her fire. Mother Guillette lived in a wretched hut two gunshots away
+from the farm. Still she was a willing and an orderly woman. Her poor
+dwelling was clean and neat, and the care with which her clothes were
+mended showed that she respected herself in the midst of her penury.
+
+"You have come to fetch your evening fire, Mother Guillette," said the
+old man to her. "Is there anything else you want?"
+
+"No, Father Maurice," answered she; "nothing for the present. I am no
+beggar, as you know, and I take care not to abuse the kindness of my
+friends."
+
+"That is very true. Besides, your friends are always ready to do you a
+service."
+
+"I was just talking to your wife, and I was asking her if Germain had
+finally decided to marry again."
+
+"You are no gossip," replied Father Maurice; "we can talk in your
+presence without having any foolish tale-bearing to fear. So I will tell
+my wife and you that Germain has made up his mind absolutely. To-morrow
+morning he starts for the farm at Fourche."
+
+"Good enough!" cried Mother Maurice; "poor child! God grant he may find
+a woman as good and true as he."
+
+"So he is going to Fourche?" remarked Mother Guillette; "how lucky that
+is! It is exactly what I want. And since you were just asking me
+if there were anything I wished for, I am going to tell you, Father
+Maurice, how you can do me a service."
+
+"Tell me what it is; we like to help you."
+
+"I wish Germain would be so kind as to take my daughter along with him."
+
+"Where? To Fourche?"
+
+"No, not to Fourche, but to Ormeaux. She is to stay there the rest of
+the year."
+
+"What!" exclaimed Mother Maurice, "are you going to separate from your
+daughter?"
+
+"She must go out to work and earn her living. I am sorry enough, and she
+is too, poor soul. We could not make up our minds to part Saint John's
+Day, but now that Saint Martin's is upon us, she finds a good place as
+shepherdess at the farms at Ormeaux. On his way home from the fair the
+other day, the farmer passed by here. He caught sight of my little Marie
+tending her three sheep on the common.
+
+"'You have hardly enough to do, my little girl,' said he; 'three sheep
+are not enough for a shepherdess: would you like to take care of a
+hundred? I will take you along. Our shepherdess has fallen sick. She is
+going back to her family, and if you will be at our farm before a week
+is over, you shall have fifty francs for the rest of the year up to
+Saint John's Day.'
+
+"The child refused, but she could not help thinking it over and telling
+me about it, when she came home in the evening, and found me downhearted
+and worried about the winter, which was sure to be hard and long; for
+this year the cranes and wild ducks were seen crossing the sky a whole
+month before they generally do. We both of us cried, but after a time
+we took heart. We knew that we could not stay together, since it is hard
+enough for one person to get a living from our little patch of ground.
+Then since Marie is old enough,--for she is going on to sixteen,--she
+must do like the rest, earn her own living and help her poor mother."
+
+"Mother Guillette," said the old laborer, "if it were only fifty francs
+you needed to help you out of your trouble, and save you from sending
+away your daughter, I should certainly find them for you, although
+fifty francs is no trifle for people like us. But in everything we must
+consult common sense as well as friendship. To be saved from want this
+year will not keep you from want in the future, and the longer your
+daughter takes to make up her mind, the harder you both will find it
+to part. Little Marie is growing tall and strong. She has not enough at
+home to keep her busy. She might get into lazy habits..."
+
+"Oh, I am not afraid of that!" exclaimed Mother Guillette. "Marie is as
+active as a rich girl at the head of a large family can be. She never
+sits still with her arms folded for an instant, and when we have no work
+to do, she keeps dusting and polishing our old furniture until it shines
+like a mirror. The child is worth her weight in gold, and I should much
+rather have her enter your service as a shepherdess than go so far away
+to people I don't know. You would have taken her at Saint John's Day;
+but now you have hired all your hands, and we cannot think of that till
+Saint John's Day next year."
+
+"Yes, I consent with all my heart, Guillette. I shall be very glad to
+take her. But in the mean time she will do well to learn her work, and
+accustom herself to obey others."
+
+"Yes, that is true, no doubt. The die is cast. The farmer at Ormeaux
+sent to ask about her this morning; we consented, and she must go. But
+the poor child does not know the way, and I should not like to send her
+so far alone. Since your son-in-law goes to Fourche to-morrow, perhaps
+he can take her. It seems that Fourche is close to her journey's end. At
+least, so they tell me, for I have never made the trip myself."
+
+"It is very near indeed, and my son will show her the way. Naturally, he
+might even take her up behind him on the mare. That will save her shoes.
+Here he comes for supper. Tell me, Germain, Mother Guillette's little
+Marie is going to become a shepherdess at Ormeaux. Will you take her
+there on your horse?"
+
+"Certainly," answered Germain, who, troubled as he was, never felt
+indisposed to do a kindness to his neighbor.
+
+In our community a mother would not think of such a thing as to trust
+a girl of sixteen to a man of twenty-eight. For Germain was really
+but twenty-eight, and although according to the notions of the
+country people he was considered rather old to marry, he was still the
+best-looking man in the neighborhood. Toil had not wrinkled and worn him
+as it does most peasants who have passed ten years in till-ing the soil.
+He was strong enough to labor for ten more years without showing signs
+of age, and the prejudices of her time must have weighed heavily on the
+mind of a young girl to prevent her from seeing that Germain had a fresh
+complexion, eyes sparkling and blue as skies in May, ruddy lips, fine
+teeth, and a body well shaped and lithe as a young horse that has never
+yet left his pasture.
+
+But purity of manners is a sacred custom in some districts far distant
+from the corrupted life of great cities, and amongst all the
+households of Belair, the family of Maurice was known to be honest and
+truth-loving. Germain was on his way to find a wife. Marie was a child,
+too young and too poor to be thought of in this light, and unless he
+were a heartless and a bad man he could not entertain one evil thought
+concerning her. Father Maurice felt no uneasiness at seeing him take the
+pretty girl on the crupper. Mother Guillette would have thought herself
+doing him a wrong had she asked him to respect her daughter as his
+sister. Marie embraced her mother and her young friends twenty times,
+and then mounted the mare in tears. Germain, sad on his own account,
+felt all the more sympathy for her sorrow, and rode away with a
+melancholy air, while all the people of the neighborhood waved good-by
+to Marie without a thought of harm.
+
+
+
+
+V -- Petit-Pierre
+
+THE gray was young, good-looking, and strong. She carried her double
+burden with ease, laying back her ears and champing her bit like the
+high-spirited mare she was. Passing in front of the pasture, she caught
+sight of her mother, whose name was the Old Gray as hers was the Young
+Gray, and she whinnied in token of good-by. The Old Gray came nearer
+the hedge, and striking her shoes together she tried to gallop along the
+edge of the field in order to follow her daughter; then seeing her fall
+into a sharp trot, the mare whinnied in her turn and stood in an uneasy
+attitude, her nose in the air and her mouth filled with grass that she
+had no thought of eating.
+
+"That poor beast always knows her offspring," said Germain, trying to
+keep Marie's thoughts from her troubles. "That reminds me, I never kissed
+Petit-Pierre before I started. The naughty boy was not there. Last night
+he wished to make me promise to take him along, and he wept for an hour
+in bed. This morning again, he tried everything to persuade me. Oh, how
+sly and coaxing he is! But when he saw that he could not gain his point,
+the young gentleman got into a temper. He went off to the fields, and I
+have not seen him all day."
+
+"I have seen him," said little Marie, striving to keep back her tears;
+"he was running toward the clearing with Soulas' children, and I felt
+sure that he had been away from home a long time, for he was hungry and
+was eating wild plums and blackberries. I gave him the bread I had for
+lunch, and he said, 'Thank you, dear Marie; when you come to our house,
+I will give you some cake.' He is a dear little child, Germain."
+
+"Yes, he is," answered the laborer; "and there is nothing I would not do
+for him. If his grandmother had not more sense than I, I could not have
+helped taking him with me, when I saw him crying as though his poor
+little heart would burst."
+
+"Then why did you not take him, Germain? He, would have been very little
+trouble. He is so good when you please him."
+
+"He would probably have been in the way in the place where I am going.
+At least Father Maurice thought so. On the other hand, I should have
+thought it well to see how they received him. For no one could help
+being kind to such a nice child. But at home they said that I must not
+begin by showing off all the cares of the household. I don't know why I
+speak of this to you, little Marie; you can't understand."
+
+"Oh, yes, I do; I know that you are going away to marry; my mother spoke
+to me about it, and told me not to mention it to a soul, either at home
+or at my destination, and you need not be afraid; I shall not breathe a
+word about it."
+
+"You are very right. For the deed is n't done yet. Perhaps I shall not
+suit this woman."
+
+"I hope you will, Germain; why should you not suit her?"
+
+"Who knows? I have three children, and that is a heavy burden for a
+woman who is not their mother."
+
+"Very true. But are not your children like other children?"
+
+"Do you think so?"
+
+"They are lovely as little angels, and so well brought up that you can't
+find better children."
+
+"There 's Sylvain. He is none too obedient."
+
+"He is so very little. He can't help being naughty. But he is very
+bright."
+
+"He is bright it is true, and very brave. He is not afraid of cows
+nor bulls, and if he were given his own way, he would be climbing on
+horseback already with his elder brother."
+
+"Had I been in your place, I would have taken the eldest boy along.
+Surely people would have liked you at once for having such a pretty
+child."
+
+"Yes, if a woman is fond of children. But if she is not."
+
+"Are there women who don't love children?"
+
+"Not many, I think, but still there are some, and that is what troubles
+me."
+
+"You don't know this woman at all, then?"
+
+"No more than you, and I fear that I shall not know her better after I
+have seen her. I am not suspicious. When people say nice things to me,
+I believe them, but more than once I have had good reason to repent, for
+words are not deeds."
+
+"They say that she is a very good woman."
+
+"Who says so? Father Maurice?"
+
+"Yes, your father-in-law."
+
+"That is all very well. But he knows her no more than I."
+
+"Well, you will soon see. Pay close attention, and let us hope that you
+will not be deceived."
+
+"I have it. Little Marie, I should be very much obliged if you would
+come into the house for a minute before you go straight on to Ormeaux.
+You are quick-witted; you have always shown that you are not stupid,
+and nothing escapes your notice. Should you see anything to rouse your
+suspicions, you must warn me of it very quietly."
+
+"Oh! no, Germain, I will not do that; I should be too much afraid of
+making a mistake; and, besides, if a word lightly spoken were to turn
+you against this marriage, your family would bear me a grudge, and I
+have plenty of troubles now without bringing any more on my poor dear
+mother."
+
+As they were talking thus, the gray pricked up her ears and shied; then
+returning on her steps, she approached the bushes, where she began to
+recognize something which had frightened her at first. Germain cast
+his eye over the thicket, and in a ditch, beneath the branches of a
+scrub-oak, still thick and green, he saw something which he took for a
+lamb.
+
+"The little creature is strayed or dead, for it does not move. Perhaps
+some one is looking for it; we must see."
+
+"It is not an animal," cried little Marie; "it is a sleeping child. It
+is your Petit-Pierre."
+
+"Heavens!" exclaimed Germain; "see the little scamp asleep so far away
+from home, and in a ditch where a snake might bite him!"
+
+He lifted up the child, who smiled as he opened his eyes and threw his
+arms about his father's neck, saying: "Dear little father, you are going
+to take me with you."
+
+"Oh, yes; always the same tune. What were you doing there, you naughty
+Pierre?"
+
+"I was waiting for my little father to go by. I was watching the road,
+and I watched so hard that I fell asleep."
+
+"And if I had passed by without seeing you, you would have been out of
+doors all night, and a wolf would have eaten you up."
+
+"Oh, I knew very well that you would see me," answered Petit-Pierre,
+confidently.
+
+"Well, kiss me now, bid me good-by, and run back quickly to the house,
+unless you wish them to have supper without you."
+
+"Are you not going to take me, then?" cried the little boy, beginning to
+rub his eyes to show that he was thinking of tears.
+
+"You know very well that grandpapa and grand-mama do not wish it," said
+Germain, fortifying himself behind the authority of his elders, like a
+man who distrusts his own.
+
+The child would not listen. He began to cry with all his might, saying
+that as long as his father was taking little Marie, he might just as
+well take him too. They replied that they must pass through great woods
+filled with wicked beasts who eat up little children. The gray would not
+carry three people; she had said so when they were starting, and in the
+country where they were going there was no bed and no supper for little
+boys. All these good reasons could not persuade Petit-Pierre; he threw
+himself on the ground, and rolled about, shrieking that his little
+father did not love him any more, and that if he did not take him he
+would never go back to the house at all, day or night.
+
+Germain had a father's heart, as soft and weak as a woman's. His-wife's
+death, and the care which he had been obliged to bestow all alone on his
+little ones, as well as the thought that these poor motherless children
+needed a great deal of love, combined to make him thus. So such a sharp
+struggle went on within him, all the more because he was ashamed of his
+weakness and tried to hide his confusion from little Marie, that the
+sweat started out on his forehead, and his eyes grew red and almost
+ready to weep. At last he tried to get angry, but as he turned toward
+little Marie in order to let her witness his strength of mind, he saw
+that the good girls face was wet with tears; all his courage forsook him
+and he could not keep back his own, scold and threaten as he would.
+
+"Truly your heart is too hard," said little Marie at last, "and for
+myself I know that I never could refuse a child who felt so badly. Come,
+Germain, let 's take him. Your mare is well used to carrying two people
+and a child, for you know that your brother-in-law and his wife, who is
+much heavier than I, go to market every Saturday with their boy on this
+good beast's back. Take him on the horse in front of you. Besides, I
+should rather walk on foot all alone than give this little boy so much
+pain."
+
+"Never mind," answered Germain, who was dying to allow himself to give
+way. "The gray is strong, and could carry two more if there were room on
+her back. But what can we do with this child on the way? He will be cold
+and hungry, and who will take care of him to-night and tomorrow, put
+him to bed, wash him, and dress him? I don't dare give this trouble to
+a woman I don't know, who will think, doubtless, that I am exceedingly
+free and easy with her to begin with."
+
+"Trust me, Germain, you will know her at once by the kindness or the
+impatience that she shows. If she does not care to receive your Pierre,
+I will take charge of him myself. I will go to her house and dress him,
+and I will take him to the fields with me to-morrow. I will amuse him
+all day long, and take good care that he does not want for anything."
+
+"He will tire you, my poor girl, and give you trouble. A whole day is a
+long time."
+
+"Not at all; it will give me pleasure; he will keep me company, and that
+will make me less sad the first day that I must pass in a new place. I
+shall fancy that I am still at home."
+
+Seeing that little Marie was pleading for her, the child seized upon her
+skirt and held it so tight that they must have hurt him in order to
+tear it away. When he perceived that his father was weakening, he took
+Marie's hand in both his tiny sunburned fists and kissed her, leaping
+for joy, and pulling her toward the mare with the burning impatience
+children feel in their desires.
+
+"Come along," said the young girl, lifting him in her arms; "let us try
+to quiet his poor little heart. It is fluttering like a little bird; and
+if you feel the cold when night comes on, tell me, my Pierre, and I will
+wrap you in my cape. Kiss your little father, and beg his pardon for
+being naughty. Tell him that you will never, never be so again. Do you
+hear?"
+
+"Yes, yes, provided that I always do just as he wishes. Is n't it
+so?" said Germain, drying the little boy's eyes with his handkerchief.
+"Marie, you are spoiling the little rascal. But really and truly, you
+are too good, little Marie. I don't know why you did not come to us
+as shepherdess last Saint John's Day. You would have taken care of my
+children, and I should much rather pay a good price for their sake than
+try to find a woman who will think, perhaps, she is doing me a great
+kindness if she does not detest them."
+
+"You must not look on the dark side of things," answered little Marie,
+holding the horse's bridle while Germain placed his son in front of the
+big pack-saddle covered with goatskin. "If your wife does not care for
+children, take me into your service next year, and you may be sure I
+shall amuse them so well that they will not notice anything."
+
+
+
+
+VI -- On the Heath
+
+"DEAR ME," said Germain, after they had gone a few steps farther, "what
+will they think at home when they miss the little man? The family will
+be worried, and will be looking everywhere for him."
+
+"You can tell the man who is mending the road up there that you are
+taking him along, and ask him to speak to your people."
+
+"That is very true, Marie; you don't forget anything. It never occurred
+to me that Jeannie must be there."
+
+"He lives close to the farm, and he will not fail to do your errand."
+
+When they had taken this precaution, Germain put the mare to a trot, and
+Petit-Pierre was so overjoyed that for a time he forgot that he had
+gone without his dinner; but the motion of the horse gave him a hollow
+feeling in his stomach, and at the end of a league, he began to gape and
+grow pale, and confessed that he was dying of hunger.
+
+"This is the way it begins," exclaimed Germain. "I was quite sure that
+we should not go far without this young gentleman crying with hunger or
+thirst."
+
+"I am thirsty, too!" said Petit-Pierre.
+
+"Very well, then, let 's go to Mother Rebec's tavern at Corlay, the
+sign of 'The Dawn'--a pretty sign, but a poor lodging. You will take
+something to drink, too, will you not, Marie?"
+
+"No, no; I don't want anything. I will hold the mare while you go in
+with the child."
+
+"But I remember, my good girl, that this morning you gave the bread from
+your own breakfast to my Pierre. You have had nothing to eat. You would
+not take dinner with us at home; you would do nothing but cry."
+
+"Oh, I was not hungry; I felt too sad, and I give you my word that even
+now I have no desire to eat."
+
+"You must oblige yourself to eat, little girl, else you will fall sick.
+We have a long way to go, and it will not do to arrive half-starved and
+beg for bread before we say how d' ye do. I shall set you a good example
+myself, although I am not very hungry: and I am sure that I can, for,
+after all, I did not eat any dinner. I saw you crying, you and your
+mother, and it made me feel sad. Come along. I am going to tie the gray
+at the door. Get down; I wish you to."
+
+All three entered the inn, and in less than fifteen minutes the fat,
+lame hostess was able to place before them a nice-looking omelette, some
+brown bread, and a bottle of light wine.
+
+Peasants do not eat quickly, and little Pierre had such a good appetite
+that a whole hour passed before Germain could think of starting out
+again. At first little Marie ate in order to be obliging; then little
+by little she grew hungry. For, at sixteen, a girl cannot fast for long,
+and country air is dictatorial.
+
+The kind words with which Germain knew how to comfort her and strengthen
+her courage, produced their effect. She tried hard to persuade herself
+that seven months would soon be over, and to think of the pleasure in
+store for her when she saw once more her family and her hamlet; for
+Father Maurice and Germain had both promised to take her into their
+service. But just as she began to cheer up and play with little Pierre,
+Germain was so unfortunate as to point out to her from the inn window
+the lovely view of the valley which can all be seen from this height,
+and which looks so happy and green and fertile.
+
+Marie looked and asked if the houses of Belair were in sight.
+
+"No doubt," said Germain, "and the farm, too, and even your house--see!
+that tiny gray spot not far from Godard's big poplar, below the belfry."
+
+"Ah, I see it," said the little girl; and then she began to cry.
+
+"I ought not to have made you think of it," said Germain. "I can do
+nothing but stupid things today. Come along, Marie; let 's start, and in
+an hour, when the moon rises, it will not be hot."
+
+They resumed their journey across the great heath, and for fear of
+tiring the young girl and the child by too rapid a trot, Germain did not
+make the gray go very fast. The sun had set when they left the road to
+enter the wood.
+
+Germain knew the way as far as Magnier, but he thought it would be
+shorter to avoid the Chantaloube road and descend by Presles and La
+Sepulture, a route he was not in the habit of taking on his way to the
+fair. He lost his way, and wasted more time before he reached the wood.
+Even then he did not enter it on the right side, although he did not
+perceive his mistake, so that he turned his back on Fourche, and took a
+direction higher up on the way to Ardente.
+
+He was prevented still further from finding his way by a thick mist
+which rose as the night fell; one of those mists which come on autumn
+evenings when the whiteness of the moonlight renders them more undefined
+and more treacherous. The great pools of water scattered through the
+glades gave forth a vapor so dense that when the gray crossed them,
+their presence was known only by a splashing noise, and the difficulty
+with which she drew her feet from the mud.
+
+At last they found a good straight road, and when they came to the end
+of it, and Germain tried to discover where he was, he saw that he was
+lost. For Father Maurice had told him, when he explained the way, that
+on leaving the wood he must descend a very steep hillside, cross a wide
+meadow, and ford the river twice. He had even warned him to cross this
+river carefully; for, early in the season, there had been great rains,
+and the water might still be higher than usual. Seeing neither hillside
+nor meadows, nor river, but a heath, level and white as a mantle of
+snow, Germain stopped, looked about for a house, and waited for a
+passer-by, but could find nothing to set him right. Then he retraced his
+steps and reentered the wood. But the mist thickened yet more, the moon
+was completely hidden, the roads were execrable, and the quagmires deep.
+Twice the gray almost fell. Her heavy load made her lose courage, and
+although she kept enough sagacity to avoid the tree-trunks, she could
+not prevent her riders from striking the great branches which overhung
+the road at the height of their heads and caused them great danger.
+In one of these collisions Germain lost his hat, and only recovered it
+after much difficulty. Petit-Pierre had fallen asleep, and, lying like
+a log in his father's arms, hampered him so that he could no longer hold
+up nor direct the horse.
+
+"I believe we are bewitched," exclaimed Germain, stopping; "for the
+wood is not large enough to get lost in, if a man is not drunk, and here
+we have been turning round and round for two hours at least, without
+finding a way out. The gray has but one idea in her head, and that is to
+get home. It is she who is deceiving me. If we wish to go home, we have
+only to give her the bit. But when we are perhaps but two steps from
+our journey's end, it would be foolish to give up and return such a long
+road; and yet I am at a loss what to do. I cant see sky or earth, and
+I am afraid that the child will catch the fever if we remain in this
+cursed fog, or that he will be crushed beneath our weight if the horse
+falls forward."
+
+"We must not persist longer," said little Marie. "Let 's dismount,
+Germain. Give me the child; I can carry him perfectly well, and I know
+better than you how to keep the cloak from falling open and leaving
+him exposed. You lead the mare by her bridle. Perhaps we shall see more
+clearly when we are nearer the ground."
+
+This precaution was of service only in saving them from a fall, for the
+fog hung low and seemed to stick to the damp earth.
+
+Their advance was painfully slow, and they were soon so weary that they
+halted when they reached a dry spot beneath the great oaks.
+
+Little Marie was in a violent sweat, but she uttered not a word of
+complaint, nor did she worry about anything. Thinking only of the child,
+she sat down on the sand and laid it upon her knees, while Germain
+explored the neighborhood, after having fastened the gray's reins to the
+branch of a tree.
+
+But the gray was very dissatisfied with the journey. She reared
+suddenly, broke the reins loose, burst her girths, and giving, by way of
+receipt, half a dozen kicks higher than her head, she started across the
+clearing, showing very plainly that she needed no one to show her the
+way home.
+
+"Well, here we are afoot," said Germain, after a vain attempt to catch
+the horse, "and it would do us no good now if we were on the good road,
+for we should have to ford the river on foot, and since these paths are
+filled with water, we may be sure that the meadow is wholly submerged.
+We don't know the other routes. We must wait until this fog clears. It
+can't last more than an hour or two; as soon as we can see clearly, we
+shall look about for a house, the first we come to near the edge of the
+wood. But for the present we can't stir from here. There is a ditch
+and a pond over there. Heaven knows what is in front of us, and what is
+behind us is more than I can say now, for I have forgotten which way we
+came."
+
+
+
+
+VII -- Underneath the Big Oaks
+
+"WELL, we must be patient, Germain," said little Marie. "We are not
+badly off on this little hillock. The rain does not pierce the leaves of
+these big oaks, and we can light a fire, for I can feel old stumps which
+stir readily and are dry enough to burn. You have a light, Germain, have
+you not? You were smoking your pipe a few minutes ago."
+
+"I did have; my tinderbox was in my bag on the saddle with the game that
+I was bringing to my bride that is to be, but that devilish mare has run
+away with everything, even with my cloak, which she will lose and tear
+to bits on every branch she comes to." "No, no, Germain; saddle and
+cloak and bag are all there on the ground at your feet. The gray burst
+her girths, and threw off everything as she ran away."
+
+"That's true, thank God," exclaimed the laborer; "if we can grope about
+and find a little dead wood, we shall be able to dry ourselves and get
+warm."
+
+"That 's not difficult," said little Marie; "dead wood always cracks
+when you step on it. But will you give me the saddle?"
+
+"What do you want of it?"
+
+"To make a bed for the child. No, not that way. Upside down. He will
+not roll off into the hollow, and it is still very warm from the horse's
+back. Prop it up all around with the stones that you see there."
+
+"I can't see a stone; you must have cat's eyes."
+
+"There, it is all done, Germain. Hand me your cloak so that you can wrap
+up his little feet, and throw my cape over his body. Just see if he is
+not as comfortable as though he were in his own bed, and feel how warm
+he is."
+
+"You certainly know how to take care of children, Marie."
+
+"I need not be a witch to do that; now get your tinderbox from your bag,
+and I will arrange the wood."
+
+"This wood will never catch fire; it is too damp."
+
+"You are always doubting, Germain. Don't you remember when you were a
+shepherd, and made big fires in the fields right in the midst of the
+rain?"
+
+"Yes, that is a knack that belongs to children who take care of sheep;
+but I was made to drive the oxen as soon as I could walk."
+
+"That is what has made your arms strong and your hands quick! Here, the
+fire is built; you shall see whether it does not burn. Give me the light
+and a handful of dry ferns. That is all right Now blow; you are not
+consumptive, are you?"
+
+"Not that I know of," said Germain, blowing like a smith's bellows. In
+an instant the flame leaped up, and throwing out a red glare, it rose
+finally in pale blue jets under the oak branches, battling with the fog,
+and gradually drying the atmosphere for ten feet around.
+
+"Now I am going to sit by the child, so that the sparks may not fall
+on him," said the young girl. "Pile on the wood and stir up the fire,
+Germain; we shall not catch cold nor fever here, I will answer for it."
+
+"Upon my word, you are a clever girl," said Germain; "and you know how
+to make a fire like a little fairy of the night. I feel quite revived,
+and my courage has come back again; for with my legs drenched up to the
+knees, and with the thought of staying this way till daylight, I was in
+a very bad temper just now."
+
+"And when people are in a bad temper they don't think of anything,"
+answered little Marie.
+
+"And are you never bad-tempered?"
+
+"No, never; what is the good of it?"
+
+"Oh, of course, there is no good; but how can you help it when you have
+troubles? Yet Heaven knows that you have not lacked them, my little
+girl; for you have not always been happy."
+
+"It is true that my mother and I have suffered. We have had sorrows, but
+we have never lost heart."
+
+"I should never lose heart, no matter how hard my work was," said
+Germain, "but poverty would make me very sad; for I have never wanted
+for anything. My wife made me rich, and I am rich still; I shall be
+so as long as I work on the farm; and that will be always, I hope. But
+everybody must suffer his share! I have suffered in another way."
+
+"Yes; you have lost your wife. That is very sad."
+
+"Is n't it?"
+
+"Oh! Germain, I have wept for her many a time. She was so very kind! But
+don't let us talk about her longer, for I shall burst out crying. All my
+troubles are ready to come back to me to-day."
+
+"It is true, she loved you dearly, little Marie. She used to make a
+great deal of you and your mother. Are you crying? Come, my girl, I
+don't want to cry...."
+
+"But you are crying, Germain! You are crying as hard as I. Why should
+a man be ashamed to weep for his wife? Don't let me trouble you. That
+sorrow is mine as well as yours."
+
+"You have a kind heart, Marie, and it does me good to weep with you. Put
+your feet nearer the fire; your skirts are all soaked, too, poor little
+girl. I am going to take your place by the boy. You move nearer the
+fire."
+
+"I am hot enough," said Marie; "and if you wish to sit down, take a
+corner of the cloak. I am perfectly comfortable."
+
+"The truth is that it is not so bad here," said Germain, as he sat down
+beside her. "Only I feel very hungry again. It is almost nine o'clock,
+and I have had such hard work in walking over these vile roads that I
+feel quite tired out. Are you not hungry, too, little Marie?"
+
+"I?--not at all. I am not accustomed like you to four meals a day, and
+I have been to bed so often without my supper that once more does not
+trouble me."
+
+"A woman like you is very convenient; she costs nothing," said Germain,
+smiling.
+
+"I am not a woman," exclaimed Marie, naively, without perceiving the
+direction the husbandman's ideas had taken. "Are you dreaming?"
+
+"Yes, I believe I must be dreaming," answered Germain. "Perhaps hunger
+is making my mind wander."
+
+"How greedy you are," answered she, brightening in her turn. "Well, if
+you can't live five or six hours without eating, have you not game in
+your bag and fire to cook it?"
+
+"By Jove, that's a good idea! But how about the present to my future
+father-in-law?"
+
+"You have six partridges and a hare! I suppose you do not need all of
+them to satisfy your appetite."
+
+"But how can we cook them without a spit or andirons. They will be
+burned to a cinder!"
+
+"Not at all," said little Marie; "I warrant that I can cook them for you
+under the cinders without a taste of smoke. Have you never caught larks
+in the fields, and cooked them between two stones? Oh! that is true--I
+keep forgetting that you have never been a shepherd. Come, pluck the
+partridge. Not so hard! You will tear the skin."
+
+"You might be plucking the other to show me how!"
+
+"Then you wish to eat two? What an ogre you are! They are all plucked. I
+am going to cook them."
+
+"You would make a perfect little sutler's girl, Marie, but unhappily you
+have no canteen, and I shall have to drink water from this pool!"
+
+"You would like some wine, would you not? Possibly you might prefer
+coffee. You imagine yourself under the trees at the fair. Call out the
+host. Some wine for the good husbandman of Belair!"
+
+"You little witch, you are making fun of me! Would not you drink some
+wine if you had it?"
+
+"I? At Mother Rebec's, with you to-night, I drank some for the second
+time in my life. But if you are very good, I shall give you a bottle
+almost full, and excellent too."
+
+"What? Marie, I verily believe you are a witch!"
+
+"Were you not foolish enough to ask for two bottles of wine at the inn?
+You and your boy drank one, and the other you set before me. I hardly
+drank three drops, yet you paid for both without looking."
+
+"What then?"
+
+"Why, I put the full one in my basket, because I thought that you or
+your child would be thirsty on the journey. And here it is."
+
+"You are the most thoughtful girl I have ever met. Although the poor
+child was crying when we left the inn, that did not prevent her from
+thinking of others more than of herself. Little Marie, the man who
+marries you will be no fool."
+
+"I hope not, for I am not fond of fools. Come, eat up your partridges;
+they are done to a turn; and for want of bread, you must be satisfied
+with chestnuts."
+
+"Where the deuce did you find chestnuts, too?"
+
+"It is extraordinary! All along the road I picked them off the branches
+as we went along, and filled my pockets."
+
+"And are they cooked, too?"
+
+"Where would my wits have been had I not had sense enough to put the
+chestnuts in the fire as soon as it was lighted? That is the way we
+always do in the fields."
+
+"So we are going to take supper together, little Marie. I want to
+drink your health and wish you a good husband, just the sort of a man
+that will suit you. Tell me what kind you want."
+
+"I should find that very difficult, Germain, for I have not thought
+about it yet."
+
+"What, not at all? Never?" said Germain, as he began to eat with a
+laborer's appetite, yet stopping to cut off the more tender morsels for
+his companion, who persisted in refusing them and contented herself with
+a few chestnuts.
+
+"Tell me, little Marie," he went on, seeing that she had no intention
+of answering him, "have you never thought of marrying? Yet you are old
+enough?"
+
+"Perhaps," she said, "but I am too poor. I need at least a hundred
+crowns to marry, and I must work five or six years to scrape them
+together."
+
+"Poor girl, I wish Father Maurice were willing to give me a hundred
+crowns to make you a present of."
+
+"Thank you kindly, Germain. What do you suppose people would say of me?"
+
+"What do you wish them to say of you? They know very well that I am too
+old to marry you. They would never believe that I--that you--"
+
+"Look, Germain, your child is waking up," said little Marie.
+
+
+
+
+VIII -- The Evening Prayer
+
+PETIT-PIERRE had raised his head and was looking about him with a
+thoughtful air.
+
+"Oh, that is the way he always does, whenever he hears the sound of
+eating," said Germain. "The explosion of a cannon would not rouse him,
+but if you work your jaws near him, he opens his eyes at once."
+
+"You must have been just like him at his age," said little Marie, with
+a sly smile. "See! my Petit-Pierre, you are looking for your canopy.
+To-night it is made all of green, my child; but your father eats his
+supper none the less. Do you wish to sup with him? I have not eaten your
+share; I thought that you might claim it."
+
+"Marie, I wish you to eat," cried the husbandman; "I shall not touch
+another morsel. I am a greedy glutton. You are depriving yourself for
+our sake. It is not fair. I am ashamed. It takes away all my appetite. I
+will not have my son eat his supper unless you take some too."
+
+"Leave us alone," said little Marie; "you have not the key to our
+appetites. Mine is tight shut to-day, but your Pierre's is as wide open
+as a little wolfs. Just see how he seizes his food. He will be a strong
+workman too, some day!"
+
+In truth, Petit-Pierre showed very soon whose son he was, and though
+scarcely awake and wholly at a loss to know where he was and how he
+had come there, he began to eat ravenously. As soon as his hunger was
+appeased, feeling excited as children do who break loose from their
+wonted habits, he had more wit, more curiosity, and more good sense than
+usual. He made them explain to him where he was, and when he found that
+he was in the midst of a forest, he grew a little frightened.
+
+"Are there wicked beasts in this forest?" he demanded of his father.
+
+"No, none at all. Don't be afraid."
+
+"Then you told a story when you said that if I went with you into the
+great forest, the wolves would carry me off."
+
+"Just see this logician," said Germain, embarrassed.
+
+"He is right," replied little Marie. "That is what you told him. He has
+a good memory, and has not forgotten. But, little Pierre, you must learn
+that your father never tells a story. We passed through the big forest
+whilst you were sleeping, and now we are in the small forest where there
+are no wicked beasts."
+
+"Is the little forest very far away from the big one?"
+
+"Far enough; besides, the wolves never go out of the big forest. And
+then, if some of them should come here, your father would kill them."
+
+"And you too, little Marie?"
+
+"Yes, we, too, for you would help also, my Pierre. You are not
+frightened, are you? You would beat them soundly?"
+
+"Yes, indeed, I would," said the child, proudly, as he struck a heroic
+attitude; "we would kill them."
+
+"There is nobody like you for talking to children and for making them
+listen to reason," said Germain to little Marie. "To be sure, it is
+not long ago since you were a small child yourself, and you have not
+forgotten what your mother used to say to you. I believe that the
+younger one is, the better one gets on with children. I am very much
+afraid that a woman of thirty who does not yet know what it is to be a
+mother, would find it hard to prattle to children and reason with them."
+
+"Why, Germain? I don't know why you have such a bad idea of this woman;
+you will change your mind."
+
+"The devil take the woman!" exclaimed Germain. "I wish I were going away
+from her forever. What do I want of a wife whom I don't know?"
+
+"Little father," said the child, "why is it that you speak so much of
+your wife to-day, since she is dead?"
+
+"Then you have not forgotten your poor, dear mother?"
+
+"No; for I saw her placed in a beautiful box of white wood, and my
+grandmother led me up to her to kiss her and say good-by. She was very
+white and very stiff, and every evening my aunt made me pray God that
+she might go to him in Heaven and be warm. Do you think that she is
+there now?"
+
+"I hope so, my child; but you must always pray. It shows your mother
+that you love her."
+
+"I am going to say my prayers," answered the boy. "I forgot them
+to-night. But I can't say them all alone, for I always forget something.
+Little Marie must help me."
+
+"Yes, my Pierre, I will help you," said the young girl. "Come and kneel
+down in my lap."
+
+The child knelt down on the girl's skirt. He clasped his little hands
+and began to say his prayers, at first with great care and earnestness,
+for he knew the beginning very well, then slowly and with more
+hesitation, and finally repeating word by word after Marie, when he came
+to that place in his prayer where sleep overtook him so invariably that
+he had never been able to learn the end. This time again the effort of
+close attention and the monotony of his own accent produced their wonted
+effect. He pronounced the last syllables with great difficulty, and only
+after they were thrice repeated.
+
+His head grew heavy and fell on Marie's breast; his hands unclasped,
+divided, and fell open on his knees. By the light of the camp-fire,
+Germain watched his little darling hushed at the heart of the young
+girl, who, as she held him in her arms and warmed his fair hair with
+her sweet breath, had herself fallen into a holy reverie, and prayed in
+quiet for the soul of Catherine.
+
+Germain was touched. He tried to express to little Marie the grateful
+esteem which he felt for her, but he could find no fitting words.
+
+He approached her to kiss his son, whom she held close to her breast,
+and he could scarcely raise his lips from little Pierre's brow.
+
+"You kiss too hard," said Marie, gently pushing away the husbandman's
+head. "You will wake him. Let me put him back to bed, for the boy has
+left us already for dreams of paradise."
+
+The child allowed Marie to lay him down, but feeling the goatskin on the
+saddle, he asked if he were on the gray. Then opening his big blue eyes,
+and keeping them fixed on the branches for a minute, he seemed to be
+dreaming, wide-awake as he was, or to be struck with an idea which had
+slipped his mind during the daytime, and only assumed a distinct form at
+the approach of sleep.
+
+"Little father," said he, "if you wish to give me a new mother, I hope
+it will be little Marie."
+
+And without waiting for an answer, he closed his eyes and slept.
+
+
+
+
+
+IX -- Despite the Cold
+
+LITTLE MARIE seemed to give no more heed to the child's odd words than
+to regard them as a proof of friendship. She wrapped him up with care,
+stirred the fire, and as the fog resting on the neighboring pool gave
+no sign of lifting, she advised Germain to lie near the fire and take a
+nap.
+
+"I see that you are sleepy already," said she, "for you don't say a word
+and you gaze into the fire, just as your little boy was doing."
+
+"It is you who must sleep," answered the husbandman, "and I will take
+care of both of you, for I have never felt less sleepy than I do now. I
+have fifty things to think of."
+
+"Fifty is a great many," said the little girl, with a mocking accent.
+"There are lots of people who would be delighted to have one."
+
+"Well, if I am too stupid to have fifty, I have one, at least, which has
+not left me for the past hour."
+
+"And I shall tell it to you as well as I told you those you thought of
+before."
+
+"Yes, do tell me if you know, Marie. Tell me yourself. I shall be glad
+to hear."
+
+"An hour ago," she answered, "your idea was to eat--and now it is to
+sleep."
+
+"Marie, I am only an ox-driver, but, upon my word, you take me for an
+ox. You are very perverse, and it is easy to see that you do not care to
+talk to me, so go to sleep. That will be better than to pick flaws in a
+man who is out of sorts."
+
+"If you wish to talk, let 's talk," said the girl, half reclining
+near the child and resting her head against the saddle. "You torment
+yourself, Germain, and you do not show much courage for a man. What
+would n't I say if I did n't do my best to fight my own troubles?"
+
+"Yes, that's very true, and that 's just what I am thinking of, my
+poor child. You are going to live, away from your friends, in a horrid
+country full of moors and fens, where you will catch the autumn fevers.
+Sheep do not pay well there, and this is always discouraging for a
+shepherdess if she means well. Then you will be surrounded by strangers
+who may not be kind to you and will not know how much you are worth. It
+makes me more sorry than I can tell you, and I have a great desire to
+take you home to your mother instead of going on to Fourche."
+
+"You talk very kindly, but there is no reason for your misgivings, my
+poor Germain. You ought not to lose heart on your friend's account, and
+instead of showing me the dark side of my lot, you should show me the
+bright side, as you did after lunch at Rebec's."
+
+"What can I do? That 's the way it appeared to me then, and now my ideas
+are changed. It is best for you to take a husband."
+
+"That cannot be, Germain, and as it is out of the question, I think no
+more about it."
+
+"Yet such a thing might happen. Perhaps if you told me what kind of a
+man you want, I might imagine somebody."
+
+"Imagining is not finding. For myself, I never imagine, for it does no
+good."
+
+"You are not looking for a rich man?"
+
+"Certainly not, for I am as poor as Job."
+
+"But if he were comfortably off, you would n't be sorry to have a good
+house, and good food, and good clothes, and to live with an honest
+family who would allow you to help your mother."
+
+"Oh, yes indeed! It is my own wish to help my mother."
+
+"And if this man were to turn up, you would not be too hard to please,
+even if he were not so very young."
+
+"Ah! There you must excuse me, Germain. That is just the point I insist
+on. I could never love an old man."
+
+"An old man, of course not; but a man of my age, for example!"
+
+"Your age is too old for me, Germain. I should like Bastien's age,
+though Bastien is not so good-looking as you."
+
+"Should you rather have Bastien, the swineherd?" said Germain,
+indignantly. "A fellow with eyes shaped like those of the pigs he
+drives!"
+
+"I could excuse his eyes, because he is eighteen."
+
+Germain felt terribly jealous.
+
+"Well," said he, "it's clear that you want Bastien, but, none the less,
+it 's a queer idea."
+
+"Yes, that would be a queer idea," answered little Marie, bursting into
+shouts of laughter, "and he would make a queer husband. You could gull
+him to your heart's content. For instance, the other day, I had picked
+up a tomato in the curate's garden. I told him that it was a fine, red
+apple, and he bit into it like a glutton. If you had only seen what a
+face he made. Heavens! how ugly he was!"
+
+"Then you don't love him, since you are making fun of him."
+
+"That would n't be a reason. But I don't like him. He is unkind to his
+little sister, and he is dirty." "Don't you care for anybody else?" "How
+does that concern you, Germain?" "Not at all, except that it gives me
+something to talk about. I see very well, little girl, that you have a
+sweetheart in your mind already."
+
+"No, Germain, you 're wrong. I have no sweetheart yet. Perhaps one may
+come later, but since I cannot marry until I have something laid by, I
+am destined to marry late in life and with an old man." "Then take an
+old man without delay." "No. When I am no longer young, I shall not
+care; for the present, it is different." "I see that I displease you,
+Marie; that's clear enough," said Germain, impatiently, and without
+stopping to weigh his words.
+
+Little Marie did not answer. Germain bent over her. She was sleeping.
+She had fallen back, overcome, stricken down, as it were, by slumber, as
+children are who sleep before they cease to babble.
+
+Germain was glad that she had not caught his last words. He felt that
+they were unwise, and he turned his back to distract his attention and
+change his thoughts.
+
+It was all in vain. He could neither sleep nor think of anything except
+the words he had just spoken. He walked about the fire twenty times; he
+moved away; he came back. At last, feeling himself tremble as though he
+had swallowed gunpowder, he leaned against the tree which sheltered the
+two children, and watched them as they slept.
+
+"I know not how it is," thought he; "I have never noticed that little
+Marie is the prettiest girl in the countryside. She has not much color,
+but her little face is fresh as a wild rose. What a charming mouth she
+has, and how pretty her little nose is! She is not large for her age,
+but she is formed like a little quail and is as light as a bird. I
+cannot understand why they made so much fuss at home over a big, fat
+woman with a bright red face. My wife was rather slender and pale, and
+she pleased me more than any one else. This girl is very frail, but she
+is healthy, and she is pretty to watch as a white kid. And then she has
+such a gentle, frank expression. You can read her good heart in her eyes
+even though they are closed in sleep. As to wit, I must confess she
+has more than ever my dear Catherine had, and she would never become
+wearisome. She is gay, wise, industrious, loving, and she is amusing. I
+don't know what more I could wish for....
+
+"But what is the use of thinking of all this?" Germain went on, trying
+to look in another direction. "My father-in-law would not hear of it,
+and all the family would think me mad! Besides, she would not have
+me herself, poor child! She thinks me too old; she told me so. She is
+unselfish, and does not mind poverty and worry, wearing old clothes, and
+suffering from hunger for two or three months every year, so long as she
+can satisfy her heart some day and give herself to the man she loves.
+She is right. I should do the same in her place, and even now, if I had
+my own way, instead of marrying a wife whom I don't care for, I would
+choose a girl after my own heart."
+
+The more Germain tried to compose himself by reasoning, the further he
+was from succeeding. He walked away a dozen steps, to lose himself in
+the fog; then, all of a sudden, he found himself on his knees beside the
+two sleeping children. Once he wished to kiss Petit-Pierre, who had
+one arm about Marie's neck, and made such a mistake that Marie felt a
+breath, hot as fire, cross her lips, and awaking, looked about her with
+a bewildered expression, totally ignorant of all that was passing within
+his mind.
+
+"I did n't see you, my poor children," said Germain, retreating rapidly.
+"I almost stumbled over you and hurt you."
+
+Little Marie was so innocent that she believed him, and fell asleep
+again. Germain walked to the opposite side of the fire, and swore to God
+that he would not stir until she had waked. He kept his word, but not
+without a struggle. He thought that he would go mad.
+
+At length, toward midnight, the fog lifted, and Germain could see the
+stars shining through the trees. The moon freed herself from the mist
+which had hidden her, and began to sow her diamonds over the damp moss.
+The trunks of the oak-trees remained in impressive darkness, but beyond,
+the white branches of the birch-trees seemed a long line of phantoms in
+their shrouds. The fire cast its reflection in the pool; and the frogs,
+growing accustomed to the light, hazarded a few shrill and uneasy
+notes; the rugged branches of the old trees, bristling with dim-colored
+lichens, crossed and intertwined themselves, like great gaunt arms,
+above the travelers' heads. It was a lovely spot, but so lonely and
+so sad that Germain, unable to endure it more, began to sing and throw
+stones into the water to forget the dread weariness of solitude. He was
+anxious also to wake little Marie, and when he saw her rise and look
+about at the weather, he proposed that they start on their journey.
+
+"In two hours," said he, "the approach of morning will chill the air so
+that we can't stay here in spite of our fire. Now we can see our way,
+and we shall soon find a house which will open its doors to us, or at
+least a barn where we can pass the rest of the night under shelter."
+
+Marie had no will of her own, and although she was longing to sleep, she
+made ready to follow Germain. The husbandman took his boy in his arms
+without awaking him, and beckoned Marie to come nearer, in order to
+cover her with his cloak. For she would not take her own mantle, which
+was wrapped about the child.
+
+When he felt the young girl so close to him, Germain, who for a time had
+succeeded in distracting his mind and raising his spirits, began to lose
+his head once more. Two or three times he strode ahead abruptly, leaving
+her to walk alone. Then seeing how hard it was for her to follow, he
+waited, drew her quickly to his side, and pressed her so tight that she
+was surprised, and even angry, though she dared not say so.
+
+As they knew not the direction whence they had come, they had no idea of
+that in which they were going. So they crossed the wood once more, and
+found themselves afresh before the lonely moor. Then they retraced their
+steps, and after much turning and twisting they spied a light across the
+branches.
+
+"Good enough! Here 's a house," exclaimed Germain. "And the people are
+already astir, for the fire is lighted. It must be very late."
+
+It was no house, but the camp-fire, which they had covered before they
+left, and which had sprung up in the breeze.
+
+They had tramped for two hours, only to find themselves at the very
+place from which they had started.
+
+
+
+
+X -- Beneath the Stars
+
+"THIS time I give up," said Germain, stamping I his foot. "We are
+bewitched, that is certain, and we shall not get away from here before
+broad day. The devil is in this place!"
+
+"Well, it's of no use to get angry," said Marie. "We must take what is
+given us. Let us make a big fire. The child is so well wrapped up that
+he is in no danger, and we shall not die from a single night out of
+doors. Where have you hidden the saddle, Germain? Right in the midst of
+the holly-bushes,--what a goose you are! It 's very convenient to get it
+from there!"
+
+"Stop, child; hold the boy while I pull his bed from the thorns. I did
+n't want you to scratch your hands."
+
+"It 's all done. Here 's the bed, and a few scratches are not
+saber-cuts," replied the brave girl.
+
+She proceeded to put the child to bed again, and Petit-Pierre was so
+sound asleep this time that he knew nothing of his last journey. Germain
+piled so much wood on the fire that the forest all about glowed with the
+light.
+
+Little Marie had come to the end of her powers, and although she did not
+complain, her legs would support her no longer. She was white, and her
+teeth chattered with cold and weakness. Germain took her in his arms to
+warm her. The uneasiness, the compassion, the tenderness of movement he
+could not repress, took possession of his heart and stilled his senses.
+As by a miracle his tongue was loosened, and every feeling of shame
+vanished.
+
+"Marie," said he, "I like you, and I am very sorry that you don't like
+me. If you would take me for your husband, there are no fathers, nor
+family, nor neighbors, nor arguments which could prevent me from giving
+myself to you. I know how happy you would make my children, and that you
+would teach them to love the memory of their mother, and with a quiet
+conscience I could satisfy the wishes of my heart. I have always been
+fond of you, and now I love you so well that were you to ask me to
+spend all my life in doing your pleasure, I would swear to do it on the
+instant. Please think how much I love you, and try to forget my age.
+Think that it is a wrong notion to believe that a man of thirty is old.
+Besides, I am but twenty-eight. A young girl is afraid that people will
+talk about her if she takes a man ten or twelve years older than she,
+simply because that is not the custom in our country, but I have heard
+say that in other countries people don't look at it in this light, and
+that they had rather allow a sensible man of approved courage to support
+a young girl, than trust her to a mere boy, who may go astray, and, from
+the honest fellow they thought him, turn into a good-for-nothing.
+And then years don't always make age. That depends on the health and
+strength a person has. When a man is used up by overwork and poverty,
+or by a bad life, he is old before twenty-five. While I--but Marie,
+you are not listening...." "Yes I am, Germain; I hear you perfectly,"
+answered little Marie, "but I am thinking over what my mother used to
+tell me so often: that a woman of sixty is to be pitied greatly when
+her husband is seventy or seventy-five and can no longer work to support
+her. He grows feeble, and it becomes her duty to nurse him at the very
+age when she begins to feel great need of care and rest herself, and so
+it is that the end comes in a garret."
+
+"Parents do well to say so, I admit," answered Germain, "but then
+they would sacrifice all their youth, the best years of their life,
+to calculating what will become of them at the age when a person is no
+longer good for anything, and when it is a matter of indifference which
+way death comes. But I am in no danger of starving in my old age. I am
+even going to lay by something, since I live with my wife's parents and
+spend nothing. And then, you see, I shall love you so well that I can
+never grow old. They say that when a man is happy he keeps sound, and I
+know well that in love for you, I am younger than Bastien; for he does
+not love you; he is too stupid, too much of a child to understand how
+pretty and how good you are, and how you were made for people to court.
+Do not hate me, Marie. I am not a bad man. I made my Catherine happy,
+and on her death-bed she swore before God that she had had only
+happiness of me, and she asked me to marry again. Her spirit must have
+spoken to her child to-night. Did you not hear the words he said? How
+his little lips quivered as his eyes stared upward, watching something
+that we could not see! He was surely looking at his mother, and it was
+she who made him say that he wished you to take her place."
+
+"Germain," answered Marie, amazed and yet thoughtful, "you speak
+frankly, and everything that you say is true. I am sure that I should do
+well to love you if it did not displease your parents too much. But what
+can I do? My heart does not speak for you. I am very fond of you, but
+though your age does not make you ugly, it makes me afraid. It seems as
+if you were some such relation to me, as an uncle or a godfather, that I
+must be respectful toward you, and that there might be moments when you
+would treat me like a little girl rather than like your wife and your
+equal. And perhaps my friends would make fun of me, and although it
+would be silly to give heed to that, I think that I should be a little
+sad on my wedding-day."
+
+"Those are but childish reasons, Marie; you speak like a child."
+
+"Yes, that is true; I am a child," said she, "and it is on that account
+I am afraid of too sensible a man. You must see that I am too young for
+you, since you just found fault with me for speaking foolishly. I can't
+have more sense than my age allows."
+
+"O Heavens! How unlucky I am to be so clumsy and to express so ill what
+I think!" cried Germain. "Marie, you don't love me. That is the long
+and short of it. You find me too simple and too dull. If you loved me
+at all, you would not see my faults so clearly. But you do not love me.
+That is the whole story."
+
+"That is not my fault," answered she, a little hurt that he was speaking
+with less tenderness. "I am doing my best to hear you, but the more I
+try the less I can get it into my head that we ought to be husband and
+wife."
+
+Germain did not answer. His head dropped into his hands, and little
+Marie could not tell whether he wept or sulked or was fast asleep. She
+felt uneasy when she saw him so cast down, and could not guess what was
+passing in his mind. But she dared not speak to him more, and as she
+was too astonished at what had passed to have any desire to sleep, she
+waited impatiently for dawn, tending the fire with care and watching
+over the child, whose existence Germain appeared to forget. Yet Germain
+was not asleep. He did not mope over his lot. He made no plans to
+encourage himself, nor schemes to entrap the girl. He suffered; he felt
+a great weight of grief at his heart. He wished that he were dead. The
+world seemed to turn against him, and if he could have wept at all, his
+tears would have come in floods. But mingled with his sorrow there was a
+feeling of anger against himself, and he felt choked, without the power
+or the wish to complain.
+
+When morning came, and the sounds of the country brought it to Germain's
+senses, he lifted his head from his hands and rose. He saw that little
+Marie had slept no more than he, but he knew no words in which to tell
+her of his anxiety. He was very discouraged. Hiding the gray's saddle
+once more in the thicket, he slung his sack over his shoulder and took
+his son by the hand.
+
+"Now, Marie," said he, "we are going to try to end our journey. Do you
+wish me to take you to Ormeaux?"
+
+"Let us leave the woods together," answered she, "and when we know where
+we are, we shall separate, and go our different ways."
+
+Germain did not answer. He felt hurt that the girl did not ask him to
+take her as far as Ormeaux, and he did not notice that he had asked her
+in a tone well fitted to provoke a refusal.
+
+After a few hundred steps, they met a wood-cutter, who pointed out the
+highroad, and told them that when they had crossed the plain, one
+must turn to the right, the other to the left, to gain their different
+destinations, which were so near together that the houses of Fourche
+were in plain sight from the farm of Ormeaux, and _vice versa_.
+
+When they had thanked him and passed on, the wood-cutter called them
+back to ask whether they had not lost a horse.
+
+"Yes," he said, "I found a pretty gray mare in my yard, where perhaps a
+wolf had driven her to seek refuge; my dogs barked the whole night long,
+and at daybreak I saw the mare under my shed. She is there now. Come
+along with me, and if you recognize her, you may take her."
+
+When Germain had given a description of the gray, and felt convinced
+that it was really she, he started back to find his saddle. Little Marie
+offered to take his child to Ormeaux, whither he might go to get him
+after he had introduced himself at Fourche.
+
+"He is rather dirty after the night that we have passed," said she. "I
+will brush his clothes, wash his pretty face, and comb his hair, and
+when he looks neat and clean, you can present him to your new family."
+
+"Who told you that I wish to go to Fourche?" answered Germain,
+petulantly. "Perhaps I shall not go."
+
+"But truly, Germain, it is your duty to go there. You will go there,"
+replied the girl.
+
+"You seem very anxious to have me married off, so that you may be quite
+sure that I shall not trouble you again?"
+
+"Germain, you must not think of that any more. It is an idea which came
+to you in the night, because this unfortunate mishap took away your
+spirits. But now you must come to your senses. I promise you to forget
+everything that you said to me, and not to breathe it to a soul."
+
+"Oh, say what you wish. It is not my custom to deny what I have spoken.
+What I told you was true and honest, and I shall not blush for it before
+anybody."
+
+"Yes, but if your wife were to know that just before you came you were
+thinking of another woman, it would prejudice her against you. So take
+care how you speak now. Don't look at me before everybody with such a
+rapt expression. Think of Father Maurice, who relies on your obedience,
+and who would be enraged at me if I were to turn you from his will.
+Good-by, Germain. I take Petit-Pierre in order to force you to go to
+Fourche. He is a pledge which I keep on your behalf."
+
+"So you want to go with her?" said the husbandman to his son, seeing
+that the boy had clasped Marie's hands and was following her resolutely.
+
+"Yes, father," answered the child, who had heard the conversation and
+understood after his own fashion the words spoken so unguardedly before
+him. "I am going away with my dearest little Marie. You shall come to
+find me when you have done marrying, but I wish Marie to be my little
+mother."
+
+"You see how much he wishes it," said Germain to the girl. "Listen to
+me, Petit-Pierre," he added. "I wish her to be your mother and to stay
+with you always. It is she who does not wish to. Try to make her grant
+you what she has denied me."
+
+"Don't be afraid, father, I shall make her say yes. Little Marie does
+everything that I wish."
+
+He walked away with the young girl. Germain stood alone, sadder and more
+irresolute than ever.
+
+
+
+
+XI -- The Belle of the Village
+
+AND after all, when he had brushed the dust of travel from his clothes
+and from his horse's harness, when he had mounted the gray, and when he
+had learned the road, he felt that there was no retreat and that he must
+forget that anxious night as though it had been a dangerous dream.
+
+He found Father Leonard seated on a trim bench of spinach-green. The six
+stone steps leading up to the door showed that the house had a cellar.
+The walls of the garden and of the hemp-field were plastered with lime
+and sand. It was a handsome house, and might almost have been mistaken
+for the dwelling of a bourgeois.
+
+Germain's future father-in-law came forward to meet him, and having
+plied him, for five minutes, with questions concerning his entire
+family, he added that conventional phrase with which one passer-by
+addresses another concerning the object of his journey: "So you are
+taking a little trip in this part of the country?"
+
+"I have come to see you," replied the husbandman, "to give you this
+little present of game with my father's compliments, and to tell you
+from him that you ought to know with what intentions I come to your
+house."
+
+"Oh, ho!" said Father Leonard, laughing and tapping his capacious
+stomach, "I see, I understand, I am with you, and," he added with a
+wink, "you will not be the only one to pay your court, young man. There
+are three already in the house dancing attendance like you. I never turn
+anybody away, and I should find it hard to say yes or no to any of them,
+for they are all good matches. Yet, on account of Father Maurice and for
+the sake of the rich fields you till, I hope that it may be you. But my
+daughter is of age and mistress of her own affairs. She will do as
+she likes. Go in and introduce yourself. I hope that you will draw the
+prize."
+
+"I beg your pardon," answered Germain, amazed to find himself an extra
+when he had counted on being alone in the field. "I was not aware that
+your daughter was supplied already with suitors, and I did not come to
+quarrel over her."
+
+"If you supposed that because you were slow in coming, my daughter would
+be left unprovided for, you were greatly mistaken, my son," replied
+Father Leonard with unshaken good humor. "Catherine has the wherewithal
+to attract suitors, and her only difficulty lies in choosing. But come
+in; don't lose heart. The woman is worth, a struggle."
+
+And pushing in Germain by the shoulders with boisterous gaiety, he
+called to his daughter as they entered the house:
+
+"So, Catherine, here is another!"
+
+This cordial but unmannerly method of introduction to the widow, in
+the presence of her other devotees, completed Germain's distress and
+embarrassment. He felt the awkwardness of his position, and stood for a
+few moments without daring to look upon the beauty and her court.
+
+The Widow Guerin had a good figure and did not lack freshness, but her
+expression and her dress displeased Germain the instant he saw her.
+She had a bold, self-satisfied look, and her cap, edged with three lace
+flounces, her silk apron, and her fichu of fine black lace were little
+in accord with the staid and sober widow he had pictured to himself.
+
+Her elaborate dress and forward manners inclined Germain to judge the
+widow old and ugly, although she was certainly not either. He thought
+that such finery and playful manners might well suit little Marie's
+years and wit, but that the widow's fun was labored and over bold, and
+that she wore her fine clothes in bad taste.
+
+The three suitors were seated at a table loaded with wines and meats
+which were spread out for their use throughout the Sunday morning; for
+Father Leonard liked to show off his wealth, and the widow was not sorry
+to display her pretty china and keep a table like a rich lady. Germain,
+simple and unsuspecting as he was, watched everything with a penetrating
+glance, and for the first time in his life he kept on the defensive when
+he drank. Father Leonard obliged him to sit down with his rivals, and
+taking a chair opposite he treated him with great politeness, and talked
+to him rather than to the others.
+
+The present of game, despite the breach Germain had made on his own
+account, was still plenteous enough to produce its effect. The widow
+did not look unaware of its presence, and the suitors cast disdainful
+glances in its direction.
+
+Germain felt ill at ease in this company, and did not eat heartily.
+Father Leonard poked fun at him.
+
+"You look very melancholy," said he, "and you are ill-using your glass.
+You must not allow love to spoil your appetite, for a fasting lover can
+make no such pretty speeches as he whose ideas are brightened with a
+drop of wine."
+
+Germain was mortified at being thought already in love, and the
+artificial manner of the widow, who kept lowering her eyes with a
+smile as a woman does who is sure of her calculations, made him long to
+protest against his pretended surrender; but fearing to appear uncivil,
+he smiled and held his peace.
+
+He thought the widow's beaus, three bumpkins. They must have been rich
+for her to admit of their pretensions. One was over forty, and fat as
+Father Leonard; another had lost an eye, and drank like a sot. The
+third was a young fellow, and nice-looking too; but he kept insisting on
+displaying his wit, and would say things so silly that they were
+painful to hear. Yet the widow laughed as though she admired all his
+foolishness, and made small proof of her good taste thereby. At first
+Germain thought her infatuated with him, but soon he perceived that
+he himself was especially encouraged, and that they wished him to make
+fresh advances. For this reason he felt an increasing stiffness and
+severity which he took no pains to conceal.
+
+The time came for mass, and they rose from table to go thither in
+company. It was necessary to walk as far as Mers, a good half-league
+away, and Germain was so tired that he longed to take a nap before they
+went; but he was not in the habit of missing mass, and he started with
+the others.
+
+The roads were filled with people, and the widow marched proudly along,
+escorted by her three suitors, taking an arm, first of one and then of
+another, and carrying her head high with an air of importance. She was
+eager to display the fourth to the eyes of the passers-by; but Germain
+felt so ridiculous to be dragged along in the train of a petticoat
+where all the world might see, that he kept at a respectable distance,
+chatting with Father Leonard, and succeeded in occupying his attention
+so well that they did not look at all as if they belonged to the party.
+
+
+
+
+XII -- The Master
+
+WHEN they reached the village, the widow halted to allow them to catch
+up. She was bent upon making her entry with all her train; but Germain,
+denying her this pleasure, deserted Father Leonard, and after conversing
+with several acquaintances, he entered the church by another door. The
+widow was vexed.
+
+When mass was over, she made her appearance in triumph on the lawn,
+where dancing was going on, and she began her dance with her three
+lovers in turn. Germain watched her and saw that she danced well, but
+with affectation.
+
+"So, you don't ask my daughter?" said Leonard, tapping him on the
+shoulder. "You are too easily frightened."
+
+"I have not danced since I lost my wife," answered the husbandman.
+
+"But now that you are looking for another, mourning 's over in heart as
+well as in clothes."
+
+"That 's no reason, Father Leonard. Besides, I am too old and I don't
+care for dancing."
+
+"Listen," said Father Leonard, drawing him toward a retired corner,
+"when you entered my house you were vexed to see the place already
+besieged, and I see that you are very proud. But that is not reasonable,
+my boy. My daughter is used to a great deal of attention, particularly
+since she left off her mourning two years ago, and it is not her place
+to lead you on."
+
+"Has your daughter been thinking of marrying for two years already
+without making her choice?" asked Germain.
+
+"She does n't wish to hurry, and she is right. Although she has lively
+manners, and although you may not think that she reflects a great deal,
+she is a woman of excellent common sense, and knows very well what she
+is about."
+
+"It does not appear to me so," said Germain ingenuously, "for she has
+three suitors in her train, and if she knew her own mind, there are two
+of them, at least, whom she would find superfluous and request to stay
+at home."
+
+"Why, Germain, you don't understand at all. She does n't wish the old
+man, nor the blind man, nor the young man, I am quite certain; yet if
+she were to turn them off, people would think that she wished to remain
+a widow, and nobody else would come."
+
+"Oh, I see. These three are used for a guide-post."
+
+"As you like. What is the harm if they are satisfied?"
+
+"Every man to his taste," said Germain.
+
+"I see that yours is different. Now supposing that you are chosen, then
+they would leave the coast clear."
+
+"Yes, supposing! and meanwhile how much time should I have to whistle?"
+
+"That depends on your persuasive tongue, I suppose. Until now, my
+daughter has always thought that she would pass the best part of her
+life while she was being courted, and she is in no hurry to become the
+servant of one man when she can order so many others about. So she will
+please herself as long as the game amuses her; but if you please her
+more than the game, the game will cease. Only you must not lose courage.
+Come back every Sunday, dance with her, let her know that you are
+amongst her followers, and if she finds you more agreeable and better
+bred than the others, some fine day she will tell you so, no doubt."
+
+"Excuse me, Father Leonard. Your daughter has the right to do as she
+pleases, and it is not my business to blame her. If I were in her place,
+I should do differently. I should be more frank, and should not waste
+the time of men who have, doubtless, something better to do than dancing
+attendance on a woman who makes fun of them. Still, if that is what
+amuses her and makes her happy, it is no affair of mine. Only there is
+one thing I must tell you which is a little embarrassing, since you have
+mistaken my intentions from the start, for you are so sure of what is
+not so, that you have given me no chance to explain. You must know,
+then, that I did not come here to ask for your daughter in marriage, but
+merely to buy a pair of oxen which you are going to take to market next
+week, and which my father-in-law thinks will suit him."
+
+"I understand, Germain," answered Leonard very calmly; "you changed your
+plans when you saw my daughter with her admirers. It is as you please.
+It seems that what attracts some people repels others, and you
+are perfectly welcome to withdraw, for you have not declared your
+intentions. If you wish seriously to buy my cattle, come and see them in
+the pasture, and whether we make a bargain or not, you will come back to
+dinner with us before you return."
+
+"I don't wish to trouble you," answered Germain. "Perhaps you have
+something to do here. I myself am tired of watching the dancing and
+standing idle. I will go to see your cattle, and I will soon join you at
+your house."
+
+Then Germain made his escape, and walked away toward the meadows where
+Leonard had pointed out to him some of his cattle. It was true that
+Father Maurice intended to buy, and Germain thought that if he were
+to bring home a fine pair of oxen at a reasonable price, he might more
+easily receive a pardon for wilfully relinquishing the purpose of his
+journey. He walked rapidly, and soon found himself at some distance from
+Ormeaux. Then of a sudden, he felt a desire to kiss his son and to see
+little Marie once again, although he had lost all hope and even had
+chased away the thought that he might some day owe his happiness to her.
+Everything that he had heard and seen: this woman, flirtatious and vain;
+this father, at once shrewd and short-sighted, encouraging his daughter
+in habits of pride and untruth; this city luxury, which seemed to him a
+transgression against the dignity of country manners; this time wasted
+in foolish, empty words; this home so different from his own; and above
+all, that deep uneasiness which comes to a laborer of the fields when
+he leaves his accustomed toil: all the trouble and annoyance of the past
+few hours made Germain long to be with his child and with his little
+neighbor. Even had he not been in love, he would have sought her to
+divert his mind and raise his spirits to their wonted level.
+
+But he looked in vain over the neighboring meadows. He saw neither
+little Marie nor little Pierre, and yet it was the hour when shepherds
+are in the fields. There was a large flock in a pasture. He asked of
+a young boy who tended them whether the sheep belonged to the farm of
+Ormeaux.
+
+"Yes," said the child.
+
+"Are you the shepherd? Do boys tend the flocks of the farm, amongst
+you?"
+
+"No, I am taking care of them to-day, because the shepherdess went away.
+She was ill."
+
+"But have you not a new shepherdess, who came this morning?"
+
+"Yes, surely; but she, too, has gone already."
+
+"What! gone? Did she not have a child with her?"
+
+"Yes, a little boy who cried. They both went away after they had been
+here two hours."
+
+"Went away! Where?"
+
+"Where they came from, I suppose. I did n't ask them."
+
+"But why did they go away?" asked Germain, growing more and more uneasy.
+
+"How the deuce do I know?"
+
+"Did they not agree about wages? Yet that must have been settled
+before."
+
+"I can tell you nothing about it I saw them come and go, nothing more."
+
+Germain walked toward the farm and questioned the farmer. Nobody could
+give him an explanation; but after speaking with the farmer, he felt
+sure that the girl had gone without saying a word, and had taken the
+weeping child with her.
+
+"Can they have been ill-treating my son?" cried Germain.
+
+"It was your son, then? How did he happen to be with the little girl?
+Where do you come from, and what is your name?"
+
+Germain, seeing that after the fashion of the country they were
+answering him with questions, stamped his foot impatiently, and asked to
+speak with the master.
+
+The master was away. Usually, he did not spend the whole day when he
+came to the farm. He was on horseback, and he had ridden off to one of
+his other farms.
+
+"But, honestly," said Germain, growing very anxious, "can't you tell me
+why this girl left?"
+
+The farmer and his wife exchanged an odd smile. Then the former answered
+that he knew nothing, and that it was no business of his. All that
+Germain could learn was that both girl and child had started off toward
+Fourche. He rushed back to Fourche. The widow and her lovers were still
+away; so was Father Leonard. The maid told him that a girl and a child
+had come to ask for him, but that as she did not know them, she did not
+wish to let them in, and had advised them to go to Mers.
+
+"And why did you refuse to let them in?" said Germain, angrily. "People
+are very suspicious in this country, where nobody opens the door to a
+neighbor."
+
+"But you see," answered the maid, "in a house as rich as this, I
+must keep my eyes open. When the master is away, I am responsible for
+everything, and I cannot open the door to the first person that comes
+along."
+
+"It is a bad custom," said Germain, "and I had rather be poor than
+to live in constant fear like that. Good-by to you, young woman, and
+good-by to your vile country."
+
+He made inquiries at the neighboring house. The shepherdess and child
+had been seen. As the boy had left Belair suddenly, carelessly dressed,
+with his blouse torn, and his little lambskin over his shoulders, and
+as little Marie was necessarily poorly clad at all times, they had been
+taken for beggars. People had offered them bread. The girl had accepted
+a crust for the child, who was hungry, then she had walked away with him
+very quickly, and had entered the forest.
+
+Germain thought a minute, then he asked whether the farmer of Ormeaux
+had not been at Fourche.
+
+"Yes," they answered, "he passed on horseback a few seconds after the
+girl."
+
+"Was he chasing her?"
+
+"Oh, so you understand?" answered the village publican, with a laugh.
+"Certain it is that he is the devil of a fellow for running after girls.
+But I don't believe that he caught her; though, after all, if he had
+seen her--"
+
+"That is enough, thank you!" And he flew rather than ran to Leonard's
+stable. Throwing the saddle on the gray's back, he leaped upon it, and
+set off at full gallop toward the wood of Chanteloube.
+
+His heart beat hard with fear and anger; the sweat poured down his
+forehead; he spurred the mare till the blood came, though the gray
+needed no pressing when she felt herself on the road to her stable.
+
+
+
+
+XIII -- The Old Woman
+
+GERMAIN came soon to the spot where he had passed the night on the
+border of the pool. The fire was smoking still. An old woman was
+gathering the remnants of the wood little Marie had piled there. Germain
+stopped to question her. She was deaf and mistook his inquiries.
+
+"Yes, my son," said she, "this is the Devil's Pool. It is an evil spot,
+and you must not approach it without throwing in three stones with your
+left hand, while you cross yourself with the right. That drives away the
+spirits. Otherwise trouble comes to those who go around it."
+
+"I am not asking about that," said Germain, moving nearer her, and
+screaming at the top of his lungs. "Have you seen a girl and a child
+walking through the wood?"
+
+"Yes," said the old woman, "a little child was drowned there."
+
+Germain shook from head to foot; but happily the hag added:
+
+"That happened a long time ago. In memory of the accident they raised
+a handsome cross there. But one stormy night, the bad spirits threw it
+into the water. You can still see one end of it. If anybody were unlucky
+enough to pass the night here, he could never find his way out before
+daylight. He must walk and walk, and though he went two hundred leagues
+into the forest, he must always return to the same place."
+
+The peasant's imagination was aroused in spite of himself, and the
+thought of the evils that must come in order that the old woman's
+assertions might be vindicated, took so firm a hold of his mind that he
+felt chilled through and through. Hopeless of obtaining more news, he
+remounted, and traversed the woods afresh, calling Pierre with all his
+might, whistling, cracking his whip, and snapping the branches that the
+whole forest might reecho with the noise of his coming; then he
+listened for an answering voice, but he heard no sound save the cowbells
+scattered through the glades, and the wild cries of the swine as they
+fought over the acorns.
+
+At length Germain heard behind him the noise of a horse following in
+his traces, and a man of middle age, dark, sturdy, and dressed after the
+city fashion, called to him to stop. Germain had never seen the farmer
+of Ormeaux, but his instinctive rage told him at once that this was
+the man. He turned, and eyeing him from head to foot, waited for him to
+speak.
+
+"Have not you seen a young girl of fifteen or sixteen go by with a small
+boy?" asked the farmer, with an assumed air of indifference, although he
+was evidently ill at ease.
+
+"What do you want of her?" answered Germain, taking no pains to conceal
+his anger.
+
+"I might tell you that that is none of your business, my friend. But
+as I have no reasons for secrecy, I shall tell you that she is a
+shepherdess whom I engaged for a year, before I knew her. When I saw
+her, she looked too young and frail to work on the farm. I thanked her,
+but I wished to pay the expenses of her short journey, and while my back
+was turned, she went off in a huff. She was in such a hurry that she
+forgot even some of her belongings and her purse, which has certainly
+not much in it, probably but a few pennies; but since I was going in
+this direction, I hoped to meet her, and give her back the things which
+she left behind, as well as what I owe her."
+
+Germain had too honest a heart not to pause at hearing a story which,
+however unlikely, was not impossible. He fastened his penetrating gaze
+on the farmer, who submitted to the examination with a plentiful supply
+of impudence or of good faith.
+
+"I wish to get at the bottom of this matter," said Germain; "and,"
+continued he, suppressing his indignation, "the girl lives in my
+village. I know her. She can't be far away. Let 's ride on together; we
+shall find her, no doubt."
+
+"You are right," said the farmer; "let's move on; but if we do not find
+her before we reach the end of this road, I shall give up, for I must
+turn off toward Ardentes."
+
+"Oh, oh!" thought the peasant, "I shall not part with you, even if I
+have to follow you around the 'Devil's Pool for twenty-four hours."
+
+"Stop," said Germain suddenly, fixing his eyes on a clump of broom which
+waved in a peculiar manner. "Halloa! halloa! Petit Pierre, is that you,
+my child?"
+
+The boy recognized his father's voice, and came out from the broom
+leaping like a young deer; but when he saw Germain in company with the
+farmer, he stopped dismayed, and stood irresolute. "Come, my Pierre,
+come. It is I," cried the husbandman, as he leaped from his horse and
+ran toward his boy to take him in his arms; "and where is little Marie?"
+
+"She is hiding there, because she is afraid of that dreadful black man,
+and so am I."
+
+"You need n't be afraid. I am here. Marie, Marie. It is I."
+
+Marie crept toward them, but the moment she saw Germain with the farmer
+close behind, she sprang forward, and throwing herself into his arms,
+clung to him as a daughter to her father.
+
+"Oh, my brave Germain!" she cried, "you will defend me. I am not afraid
+when you are near."
+
+Germain shuddered. He looked at Marie. She was pale; her clothes were
+torn by the thorns which had scratched her as she passed, rushing toward
+the brake like a stag chased by the hunters. But neither shame nor
+despair were in her face.
+
+"Your master wishes to speak to you," said he, his eyes fixed on her
+features.
+
+"My master!" she exclaimed fiercely; "that man is no master of mine, and
+he never shall be. You, Germain, you are my master. I want you to take
+me home with you. I will be your servant for nothing."
+
+The farmer advanced, feigning impatience. "Little girl," said he, "you
+left something behind at the farm, which I am bringing back to you."
+
+"No, you are not, sir," answered little Marie. "I did n't forget
+anything, and I have nothing to ask of you."
+
+"Listen a moment," returned the farmer. "It 's I who have something to
+tell you. Come with me. Don't be afraid. It's only a word or two."
+
+"You may say them aloud. I have no secrets with you."
+
+"At any rate, do take your money."
+
+"My money? You owe me nothing, thank God!"
+
+"I suspected as much," said Germain under his breath, "but I don't care,
+Marie. Listen to what he has to say to you, for--I am curious to know.
+You can tell me afterward. Go up to his horse. I shall not lose sight of
+you."
+
+Marie took three steps toward the farmer. He bent over the pommel of his
+saddle, and lowering his voice he said:
+
+"Little girl, here is a bright golden louis for you. Don't say anything
+about it; do you hear? I shall say that I found you too frail to work
+on my farm. There will be no more talk about that. I shall be passing by
+your house one of these days; and if you have not said anything, I will
+give you something more; and then if you are more sensible, you have
+only to speak. I will take you home with me, or I will come at dusk and
+talk with you in the meadows. What present would you like me to bring
+you?"
+
+"Here, sir, is the present I have for you," answered little Marie,
+aloud, as she threw the golden louis in his face with all her might. "I
+thank you heartily, and I beg that if you come anywhere near our house,
+you will be good enough to let me know. All the boys in the neighborhood
+will go out to welcome you, because, where I live, we are very fond of
+gentlemen who try to make love to poor girls. You shall see. They will
+be on the lookout for you."
+
+"You lie with your dirty tongue," cried the farmer, raising his stick
+with a dangerous air. "You wish to make people believe what is not so,
+but you shall never get a penny out of me. We know what kind of a girl
+you are."
+
+Marie drew back, frightened, and Germain sprang to the bridle of the
+farmer's horse and shook it violently.
+
+"I understand now," said he; "it is easy to see what is going on. Get
+down, my man, get down; I want to talk to you."
+
+The farmer was not eager to take up the quarrel. Anxious to escape,
+he set spurs to his horse and tried to loosen the peasant's grasp by
+striking down his hands with a cane; but Germain dodged the blow, and
+seizing hold of his antagonist's leg, he unseated him and flung him
+to the earth. The farmer regained his feet, but although he defended
+himself vigorously, he was knocked down once more. Germain held him to
+the ground. Then he said:
+
+"Poor coward, I could thrash you if I wished. But I don't want to do
+you an injury, and, besides, no amount of punishment would help your
+conscience--but you shall not stir from this spot until you beg the
+girl's pardon, on your knees."
+
+The farmer understood this sort of thing, and wished to take it all as a
+joke. He made believe that his offense was not serious, since it lay
+in words alone, and protested that he was perfectly willing to ask her
+pardon, provided he might kiss the girl afterward. Finally, he proposed
+that they go and drink a pint of wine at the nearest tavern, and so part
+good friends.
+
+"You are disgusting!" answered Germain, rubbing his victim's head in the
+dirt, "and I never wish to see your nasty face again. So blush, if you
+are able, and when you come to our village, you had better slink along
+Sneak's Alley."*
+
+He picked up the farmer's holly-stick, broke it over his knee to show
+the strength of his wrists, and threw away the pieces with disgust Then
+giving one hand to his son and the other to little Marie, he walked
+away, still trembling with anger.
+
+* This is the road, which, diverging from the principal street at the
+entrance of villages, makes a circuit about them.. Persons who are in
+dread off receiving some well deserved insult, are supposed to take this
+route to escape attention.
+
+
+
+
+XIV -- The Return to the Farm
+
+AT the end of fifteen minutes they had left the heath behind them.
+They trotted along the highroad, and the gray whinnied at each familiar
+object. Petit-Pierre told his father as much as he could understand of
+what had passed.
+
+"When we reached the farm," said he, "that man came to speak to my Marie
+in the fold where we had gone to see the pretty sheep. I had climbed
+into the manger to play, and that man did not see me. Then he said good
+morning to Marie, and he kissed her."
+
+"You allowed him to kiss you, Marie?" said Germain, trembling with
+anger.
+
+"I thought it was a civility, a custom of the place to new-comers, just
+as at your farm the grandmother kisses the young girls who enter her
+service to show that she adopts them and will be a mother to them."
+
+"And next," went on little Pierre, who was proud to have an adventure to
+tell of, "_that man_ told you something wicked, which you have told me
+never to repeat and not even remember; so I forgot it right away. Still,
+if father wishes, I will tell him what it was--"
+
+"No, Pierre, I don't wish to hear, and I don't wish you ever to think of
+it again."
+
+"Then I will forget it all over again," replied the child. "Next, _that
+man_ seemed to be growing angry because Marie told him that she was
+going away. He told her he would give her whatever she wanted,--a
+hundred francs! And my Marie grew angry too. Then he came toward her as
+if he wished to hurt her. I was afraid, and I ran to Marie and cried.
+Then _that man_ said: 'What 's that? Where did that child come from? Put
+it out,' and he raised his cane to beat me. But my Marie prevented him,
+and she spoke to him this way: 'We will talk later, sir; now I must take
+this child back to Fourche, and then I shall return.' And as soon as
+he had left the fold, my Marie spoke to me this way: 'We must run, my
+Pierre; we must get away as quickly as we can, for this is a wicked
+man and he is trying to do us harm.' Then when we had gone back of the
+farm-houses, we crossed a little meadow, and we went to Fourche to find
+you. But you were not there, and they would n't let us wait. And then
+_that man_, riding his black horse, came behind us, and we ran on as
+fast as we could and hid in the woods. And then he followed us, and
+when we heard him coming, we hid again. And then, when he had passed,
+we began to run toward home, and then you came and found us, and that is
+how it all happened. I have n't forgotten anything, have I, my Marie?"
+
+"No, my Pierre, that is the whole truth. Now, Germain, you must be my
+witness, and tell everybody in the village that if I did not stay there
+it was not from want of courage and industry."
+
+"And, Marie, I want to ask of you whether a man of twenty-eight is too
+old when there is a woman to be defended and an insult to be revenged.
+I should like to know whether Bastien or any other pretty boy, ten years
+better off than I, would not have been knocked to pieces by _that man_,
+as Petit-Pierre says. What do you think?"
+
+"I think, Germain, that you have done me a great service, and that I
+shall be grateful all my life."
+
+"Is that all?"
+
+"Little father," said the child, "I forgot to ask little Marie what I
+promised. I have not had time yet, but I will speak to her at home, and I
+will speak to my grandmother too."
+
+The child's promise set Germain to thinking He must explain his conduct
+to his family and give his objections to the widow Guam, and all the
+while conceal the true reasons which had made him so judicious and so
+decided. When a man is proud and happy, it seems an easy task to thrust
+his happiness upon others, but to be repulsed on one side and blamed on
+the other is not a very pleasant position.
+
+Fortunately, Petit-Pierre was fast asleep when they reached the farm,
+and Germain put him to bed undisturbed. Then he began upon all sorts of
+explanations, Father Maurice, seated on a three-legged stool before the
+door, listened with gravity; and, although he was ill-content with
+the result of the journey, when Germain told him about the widow's
+systematic coquetry, and demanded of his father-in-law whether he had
+the time to go and pay his court fifty-two Sundays in the year at the
+risk of being dismissed in the end, the old man nodded his head in
+assent and answered: "You were not wrong, Germain; that could never be."
+And then, when Germain described how he had been obliged to bring back
+little Marie, with the utmost haste, in order to protect her from the
+insults or perhaps from the violence of a wicked master, Father Maurice
+nodded approvingly again and said: "You were not wrong, Germain; that
+was right."
+
+When Germain had told his story, and had set forth all his reasons, the
+old farmer and his wife heaved deep, simultaneous sighs of resignation,
+and looked at each other. Then the head of the house rose and said:
+"God's will be done. Love can't be made to order."
+
+"Come to supper, Germain," said his mother-in-law. "It is unfortunate
+that this did not come to a better end, but, after all, it seems that
+God did not wish it. We must look elsewhere."
+
+"Yes," added the old man, "as my wife says, we must look elsewhere."
+
+There was no more noise at the house, and on the morrow, when
+Petit-Pierre rose with the larks at dawn, he was no longer excited
+by the extraordinary events of the preceding days. Like other little
+peasants of his age, he became indifferent, forgot everything that had
+been running in his head, and thought only of playing with his brothers,
+and of pretending to drive the horses and oxen like a man. Germain
+plunged into his work, and tried to forget, too; but he became so
+absent-minded and so sad that everybody noticed it. He never spoke to
+little Marie, he never even looked at her, and yet had anybody asked him
+in what meadow she was, or by what road she had passed, there was not a
+moment in the day when he could not have answered if he would. He dared
+not ask his family to take her in at the farm during the winter, and yet
+he knew well how she must suffer from want. But she did not suffer; and
+Mother Guillette could not understand how her little store of wood never
+grew less, and how her shed was full in the morning, although she
+had left it almost empty at night It was the same with the wheat and
+potatoes. Somebody entered by the garret window, and emptied a sack on
+the floor without awaking a soul or leaving a trace of his coming. The
+widow was at once uneasy and delighted. She made her daughter promise to
+tell nobody, and said that were people to know of the miracle performed
+at her house they would take her for a witch. She felt confident that
+the devil had a share in it, but she was in no hurry to pick a quarrel
+with him by calling down the priest's exorcisms on the house. It would
+be time enough, she said, when Satan should come to demand her soul in
+return for his gifts.
+
+Little Marie understood the truth better, but she dared not speak to
+Germain, for fear of seeing him return to his dreams of marriage, and,
+before him, she pretended to perceive nothing.
+
+
+
+
+XV -- Mother Maurice
+
+ONE day, Mother Maurice was alone in the orchard with Germain, and spoke
+to him kindly:
+
+"My poor son, I believe you are not well. You don't eat as well as
+usual; you never laugh; you talk less and less. Perhaps one of us, or
+all of us, have hurt your feelings, without knowing and without wishing
+it."
+
+"No, my mother," answered Germain, "you have always been as kind to
+me as the mother who brought me into the world, and I should be very
+ungrateful if I were to complain of you or your husband, or of anybody
+in the household."
+
+"Then, my child, it is the sorrow for your wife's death which comes back
+to you. Instead of growing lighter with time, your grief becomes worse,
+and as your father has said very wisely, it is absolutely necessary for
+you to marry again."
+
+"Yes, my mother, that is my opinion, but the women whom you advised
+me to ask don't suit me. Whenever I see them, instead of forgetting my
+Catherine, I think of her all the more."
+
+"Apparently that 's because we have n't been able to understand your
+taste. You must help us by telling us the truth. There must be a woman
+somewhere who is made for you, for God does n't make anybody without
+placing his happiness in somebody else. So if you know where to find
+this woman whom you need, take her, and be she pretty or ugly, young or
+old, rich or poor, we have made up our minds, my husband and I, to give
+our consent, for we are tired of seeing you so sad, and we can never be
+happy while you are sorrowful."
+
+"My mother, you are as kind as the kind Lord, and so is my father,"
+answered Germain; "but your compassion brings small help to my troubles,
+for the girl I love does n't care for me."
+
+"She is too young, then? It's foolish for you to love a young girl."
+
+"Yes, mother dear, I have been foolish enough to love a young girl, and
+it 's my fault. I do my best to stop thinking of it, but, working or
+sleeping, at mass or in bed, with my children or with you, I can think
+of nothing else."
+
+"Then it 's like a fate cast over you, Germain. There 's but one remedy,
+and it is that this girl must change her mind and listen to you. It's my
+duty to look into this, and see whether it 's practicable. Tell me where
+she lives, and what 's her name."
+
+"Oh, my dear mother, I dare not," said Germain, "because you will make
+fun of me."
+
+"I shall not make fun of you, Germain, because you are in trouble, and I
+don't wish to make it harder for you. Is it Fanchette?"
+
+"No, mother, of course not."
+
+"Or Rosette?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Tell me, then, for I shall never finish if I must name every girl in
+the country-side."
+
+Germain bowed his head, and could not bring himself to answer.
+
+"Very good," said Mother Maurice, "I shall let you alone for to-day;
+to-morrow, perhaps, you will be more confidential with me, or possibly
+your sister-in-law will question you more cleverly." And she picked up
+her basket to go and spread her linen on the bushes.
+
+Germain acted like children who make up their minds when they see that
+they are no longer attracting attention. He followed his mother, and at
+length, trembling, he named Marie of Guillette.
+
+Great was the surprise of Mother Maurice. Marie was the last person she
+would have dreamed of. But she had the delicacy not to cry out, and made
+her comments to herself. Then seeing that her silence hurt Germain, she
+stretched out her basket toward him and said:
+
+"Is there any reason for not helping me at my work. Carry this load, and
+come and talk with me. Have you reflected well, Germain? Are you fully
+decided?"
+
+"Alas, dear mother, you must n't speak in that way. I should be decided
+if I had a chance of success, but as I could never be heard, I have only
+made up my mind to cure myself, if I can."
+
+"And if you can't."
+
+"There is an end to everything, Mother Maurice: when the horse is laden
+too heavily, he falls, and when the cow has nothing to eat, she dies."
+
+"Do you mean to say that you will die, if you do not succeed. God grant
+not, Germain. I don't like to hear a man like you talk of those things;
+for what he says, he thinks. You are very brave, and weakness
+is dangerous for strong men. Take heart; I can't conceive that a
+poverty-stricken girl, whom you have honored so much as to ask her to
+marry you, will refuse you."
+
+"Yet it 's the truth: she does refuse me."
+
+"And what reasons does she give you?"
+
+"That you have always been kind to her, and that her family owes a great
+deal to yours, and that she does n't wish to displease you by turning me
+away from a rich marriage."
+
+"If she says that, she proves her good sense, and shows what an honest
+girl she is. But, Germain, she does n't cure you; for of course she
+tells you that she loves you and would marry you if we were willing?"
+
+"That's the worst part of all. She says that her heart can never be
+mine."
+
+"If she says what she does n't think in order to keep you at a safer
+distance, the child deserves our love, and we should pass over her youth
+on account of her great good sense."
+
+"Yes," said Germain, struck by a hope he had never held before; "that
+would be very wise and right of her! But if she is so sensible, I am
+sure it is because I displease her."
+
+"Germain," said Mother Maurice, "you must promise me not to worry for a
+whole week. Keep from tormenting yourself, eat, sleep, and be as gay as
+you used to be. For my part, I 'll speak to my husband, and if I gain
+his consent, you shall know the girl's real feelings toward you."
+
+Germain promised, and the week passed without a single word in private
+from Father Maurice, who seemed to suspect nothing. The husbandman did
+his best to look calm, but he grew ever paler and more troubled.
+
+
+
+
+XVI -- Little Marie
+
+AT length, on Sunday morning, when mass was over, his mother-in-law
+asked Germain what encouragement he had had from his sweetheart since
+the conversation in the orchard.
+
+"Why, none at all," answered he; "I have n't spoken to her."
+
+"How can you expect to win her if you don't speak to her?"
+
+"I have spoken to her but once," replied Germain. "That was when we were
+together at Fourche, and since then I have n't said a single word. Her
+refusal gave me so much pain that I had rather not hear her begin again
+to tell me that she does n't love me."
+
+"But, my son, you must speak to her now; your father gives his approval.
+So make up your mind. I tell you to do it, and, if need be, I shall
+order you to do it, for you can't rest in this uncertainty."
+
+Germain obeyed. He reached Mother Guillette's house, hanging his
+head with a hopeless air. Little Marie sat alone before the hearth so
+thoughtful that she did not hear Germain's step. When she saw him before
+her, she started from her chair in surprise and grew very red.
+
+"Little Marie," said he, sitting down near her, "I come to trouble you
+and to give you pain. I know it very well, but the man and his wife at
+home [it was thus after the peasant fashion that he designated the heads
+of the house] wish me to speak to you, and beg you to marry me. You
+don't care for me. I am prepared for it."
+
+"Germain," answered little Marie, "are you sure that you love me?"
+
+"It pains you, I know, but it is n't my fault. If you could change your
+mind, I should be so very happy, and certain it is that I don't deserve
+it. Look at me, Marie; am I very terrible?"
+
+"No, Germain," she answered, with a smile, "you are better looking than
+I."
+
+"Don't make fun of me; look at me charitably; as yet, I have never lost
+a single hair nor a single tooth. My eyes tell you plainly how much I
+love you. Look straight into my eyes. It is written there, and every
+girl knows how to read that writing."
+
+Marie looked into Germain's eyes with playful boldness; then of a sudden
+she turned away her head and trembled.
+
+"Good God," exclaimed Germain, "I make you afraid; you look at me as
+though I were the farmer of Ormeaux. Don't be afraid of me, please
+don't; that hurts me too much. I shall not say any bad words to you, I
+shall not kiss you if you will not have me, and when you wish me to go
+away, you have only to show me the door. Must I go in order to stop your
+trembling?"
+
+Marie held out her hand toward the husbandman, but without turning her
+head, which was bent on the fireplace, and without saying a word.
+
+"I understand," said Germain. "You pity me, for you are kind; you are
+sorry to make me unhappy; but you cant love me."
+
+"Why do you say these things to me, Germain?" answered little Marie,
+after a pause. "Do you wish to make me cry?"
+
+"Poor little girl, you have a kind heart, I know; but you don't love me,
+and you are hiding your face for fear of letting me see your dislike and
+your repugnance. And I? I dare not even clasp your hand! In the forest,
+when my boy was asleep and you were sleeping too, I almost kissed you
+very gently. But I would have died of shame rather than ask it of you,
+and that night I suffered as a man burning over a slow fire. Since
+that time I have dreamed of you every night. Ah! how I have kissed you,
+Marie! Yet during all that time you have slept without a dream. And now,
+do you know what I think? I think that were you to turn and look at me
+with the eyes I have for you, and were you to move your face close to
+mine, I believe I should fall dead for joy. And you, you think that if
+such a thing were to happen, you would die of anger and shame!"
+
+Germain spoke as in a dream, not hearing the words he said. Little Marie
+was trembling all the time, but he was shaking yet more and did not
+notice it. Of a sudden, she turned. Her eyes were filled with tears, and
+she looked at him reproachfully. The poor husbandman thought that this
+was the last blow, and without waiting for his sentence, he rose to go,
+but the girl stopped him, and throwing both her arms about him, she hid
+her face in his breast.
+
+"Oh, Germain," she sobbed, "did n't you feel that I loved you?"
+
+Then Germain had gone mad, if his son, who came galloping into the
+cottage on a stick, with his little sister on the crupper, scourging the
+imaginary steed with a willow branch, had not brought him to his senses.
+He lifted the boy and placed him in the girl's arms.
+
+"See," said he, "by loving me, you have made more than one person
+happy."
+
+
+
+
+
+APPENDIX
+
+I -- A Country Wedding
+
+HERE ends the history of Germain's marriage as he told it to me himself,
+good husbandman that he is. I ask your forgiveness, kind reader, that I
+know not how to translate it better; for it is a real translation that
+is needed by this old-fashioned and artless language of the peasants
+of the country "that I sing," as they used to say. These people speak
+French that is too true for us, and since Rabelais and Montaigne, the
+advance of the language has lost for us many of its old riches. Thus
+it is with every advance, and we must make the best of it. Yet it is
+a pleasure still to hear those picturesque idioms used in the old
+districts in the center of France; all the more because it is the
+genuine expression of the laughing, quiet, and delightfully talkative
+character of the people who make use of it. Touraine has preserved
+a certain precious number of patriarchal phrases. But Touraine was
+civilized greatly during the Renaissance, and since its decline she
+is filled with fine houses and highroads, with foreigners and traffic.
+Berry remained as she was, and I think that after Brittany and a few
+provinces in the far south of France, it is the best preserved district
+to be found at the present day. Some of the costumes are so strange and
+so curious that I hope to amuse you a few minutes more, kind reader,
+if you will allow me to describe to you in detail a country
+wedding--Germain's, for example--at which I had the pleasure of
+assisting several years ago.
+
+For, alas! everything passes. During my life alone, more change has
+taken place in the ideas and in the customs of my village than had
+been seen in the centuries before the Revolution. Already half the
+ceremonies, Celtic, Pagan, or of the Middle Ages, that in my childhood I
+have seen in their full vigor, have disappeared. In a year or two more,
+perhaps, the railroads will lay their level tracks across our deep
+valleys, and will carry away, with the swiftness of lightning, all our
+old traditions and our wonderful legends.
+
+It was in winter about the carnival season, the time of year when, in
+our country, it is fitting and proper to have weddings. In summer the
+time can hardly be spared, and the work of the farm cannot suffer three
+days' delay, not to speak of the additional days impaired to a greater
+or to a less degree by the moral and physical drunkenness which
+follows a gala-day. I was seated beneath the great mantelpiece of the
+old-fashioned kitchen fireplace when shots of pistols, barking of dogs,
+and the piercing notes of the bagpipe told me that the bridal pair were
+approaching. Very soon Father and Mother Maurice, Germain, and little
+Marie, followed by Jacques and his wife, the closer relatives, and the
+godfathers and godmothers of the bride and groom, all made their entry
+into the yard.
+
+Little Marie had not yet received her wedding-gifts,--favors, as they
+call them,--and was dressed in the best of her simple clothes, a dress
+of dark, heavy cloth, a white fichu with great spots of brilliant color,
+an apron of carnation,--an Indian red much in vogue at the time, but
+despised nowadays,--a cap of very white muslin after that pattern,
+happily still preserved, which calls to mind the head-dress of Anne
+Boleyn and of Agnes Sorrel. She was fresh and laughing, but not at
+all vain, though she had good reason to be so. Beside her was Germain,
+serious and tender, like young Jacob greeting Rebecca at the wells of
+Laban. Another girl would have assumed an important air and struck an
+attitude of triumph, for in every rank it is something to be married
+for a fair face alone. Yet the girl's eyes were moist and shone with
+tenderness. It was plain that she was deep in love and had no time to
+think of the opinions of others. Her little air of determination was not
+absent, but everything about her denoted frankness and good-will. There
+was nothing impertinent in her success, nothing selfish in her sense
+of power. Never have I seen so lovely a bride, when she answered with
+frankness her young friends who asked if she were happy:
+
+"Surely I have nothing to complain of the good Lord."
+
+Father Maurice was spokesman. He came forward to pay his compliments,
+and give the customary invitations. First he fastened to the mantelpiece
+a branch of laurel decked out with ribbons; this is known as the
+_writ_--that is to say, the letter of announcement. Next he gave
+to every guest a tiny cross made of a bit of blue ribbon sewn to a
+transverse bit of pink ribbon--pink for the bride, blue for the groom.
+The guests of both sexes were expected to keep this badge to adorn their
+caps or their button-holes on the wedding-day. This is the letter of
+invitation, the admission ticket.
+
+Then Father Maurice paid his congratulations. He invited the head of the
+house and all his _company_,--that is to say, all his children, all his
+friends, and all his servants,--to the benediction, _to the feast, to
+the sports, to the dance, and to everything that follows_. He did not
+fail to say, "I have come _to do you the honor of inviting you_"; a very
+right manner of speech, even though it appears to us to convey the wrong
+meaning, for it expresses the idea of doing honor to those who seem
+worthy of it.
+
+Despite the generosity of the invitation carried from house to house
+throughout the parish, politeness, which is very cautious amongst
+peasants, demands that only two persons from each family take advantage
+of it--one of the heads of the house, and one from the number of their
+children.
+
+After the invitations were made, the betrothed couple and their families
+took dinner together at the farm.
+
+Little Marie kept her three sheep on the common, and Germain tilled the
+soil as though nothing had happened.
+
+About two in the afternoon before the day set for the wedding, the music
+came. The music means the players of the bagpipe and hurdy-gurdy,
+their instruments decorated with long streaming ribbons, playing an
+appropriate march to a measure which would have been rather slow for
+feet foreign to the soil, but admirably adapted to the heavy ground and
+hilly roads of the country.
+
+Pistol-shots, fired by the young people and the children, announced
+the beginning of the wedding ceremonies. Little by little the guests
+assembled, and danced on the grass-plot before the house in order to
+enter into the spirit of the occasion. When evening was come they began
+strange preparations; they divided into two bands, and when night had
+settled down they proceeded to the ceremony of the _favors_.
+
+All this passed at the dwelling of the bride, Mother Guillette's
+cottage. Mother Guillette took with her her daughter, a dozen pretty
+shepherdesses, friends and relatives of her daughter, two or three
+respectable housewives, talkative neighbors, quick of wit and strict
+guardians of ancient customs. Next she chose a dozen stout fellows,
+her relatives and friends; and last of all the parish hemp-dresser, a
+garrulous old man, and as good a talker as ever there was.
+
+The part which, in Brittany, is played by the bazvalon, the village
+tailor, is taken in our part of the country by the hemp-dresser and the
+wool-carder, two professions which are unusually combined in one. He
+is present at all ceremonies, sad or gay, for he is very learned and
+a fluent talker, and on these occasions he must always figure as
+spokesman, in order to fulfil with exactitude certain formalities used
+from time immemorial. Traveling occupations, which bring a man into the
+midst of other families, without allowing him to shut himself up within
+his own, are well fitted to make him talker, wit, storyteller, and
+singer.
+
+The hemp-dresser is peculiarly skeptical. He and another village
+functionary, of whom we have spoken before, the grave-digger, are always
+the daring spirits of the neighborhood. They have talked so much about
+ghosts, and they know so well all the tricks of which these malicious
+spirits are capable, that they fear them scarcely at all. It is
+especially at night that all of them--grave-diggers, hemp-dressers, and
+ghosts--do their work. It is also at night when the hemp-dresser tells
+his melancholy stories. Permit me to make a digression.
+
+When the hemp has reached the right stage, that is to say, when it has
+been steeped sufficiently in running water, and half dried on the bank,
+it is brought into the yard and arranged in little upright sheaves,
+which, with their stalks divided at the base, and their heads bound in
+balls, bear in the dusk some small resemblance to a long procession
+of little white phantoms, standing on their slender legs, and moving
+noiselessly along the wall.
+
+It is at the end of September, when the nights are still warm, that they
+begin to beat it by the pale light of the moon. By day the hemp has been
+heated in the oven; at night they take it out to beat it while it is
+still hot. For this they use a kind of horse surmounted by a wooden
+lever which falls into grooves and breaks the plant without cutting it.
+It is then that you hear in the night that sudden, sharp noise of three
+blows in quick succession. Then there is silence; it is the movement of
+the arm drawing out the handful of hemp to break it in a fresh spot. The
+three blows begin again; the other arm works the lever, and thus it goes
+on until the moon is hidden by the early streaks of dawn. As the work
+continues but a few days in the year, the dogs are not accustomed to it,
+and yelp their plaintive howls toward every point of the horizon.
+
+It is the time of unwonted and mysterious sounds in the country. The
+migrating cranes fly so high that by day they are scarcely visible. By
+night they are only heard, and their hoarse wailing voices, lost in the
+clouds, sound like the parting cry of souls in torment, striving to find
+the road to heaven, yet forced by an unconquerable fate to wander near
+the earth about the haunts of men; for these errant birds have strange
+uncertainties, and many a mysterious anxiety in the course of their airy
+flight. Sometimes they lose the wind when the capricious gusts battle,
+or come and go in the upper regions. When this confusion comes by day,
+you can see the leader of the file fluttering aimlessly in the air, then
+turn about and take his place at the tail of the triangular phalanx,
+while a skilful manoeuver of his companions forms them soon in good
+order behind him. Often, after vain efforts, the exhausted leader
+relinquishes the guidance of the caravan; another comes forward, tries
+in his turn, and yields his place to a third, who finds the breeze, and
+continues the march in triumph. But what cries, what reproaches, what
+protests, what wild curses or anxious questionings are exchanged in an
+unknown tongue amongst these winged pilgrims!
+
+Sometimes, in the resonant night, you can hear these sinister noises
+whirling for a long time above the housetops, and as you can see
+nothing, you feel, despite your efforts, a kind of dread and kindred
+discomfort, until the sobbing multitude is lost in boundless space.
+
+There are other noises too which belong to this time of year, and which
+sound usually in the orchards. Gathering the fruit is not yet over, and
+the thousand unaccustomed cracklings make the tree seem alive. A branch
+groans as it bends beneath a burden which has reached, of a sudden,
+the last stage of growth; or perhaps an apple breaks from the twig, and
+falls on the damp earth at your feet with a dull sound. Then you hear
+rush by, brushing the branches and the grass, a creature you cannot
+see; it is the peasant's dog, that prowling and uneasy rover, at once
+impudent and cowardly, always wandering, never sleeping, ever seeking
+you know not what, spying upon you, hiding in the brush, and taking
+flight at the sound of a falling apple, which he thinks a stone that you
+are throwing at him.
+
+It is during those nights, nights misty and gray, that the hemp-dresser
+tells his weird stories of will-o'-the-wisps and milk-white hares, of
+souls in torment and wizards changed to wolves, of witches' vigils at
+the cross-roads, and screech-owls, prophetesses of the graveyard. I
+remember passing the early hours of such a night while the hemp-dressing
+was going on, and the pitiless strokes, interrupting the dresser's story
+at its most awful place, sent icy shivers through our veins. And often
+too the good man continued his story as he worked, and four or five
+words were lost, terrible words, no doubt, which we dared not make him
+repeat, and whose omission added a mystery yet more fearful to the
+dark mysteries of the story which had gone before. It was in vain the
+servants warned us that it was too late to stay without doors, and that
+bedtime had sounded for us long since; they too were dying to hear more;
+and then with what terror we crossed the hamlet on our way home! How
+deep did the church porch appear to us, and how thick and black the
+shadows of the old trees! The graveyard we dared not see; we shut our
+eyes tight as we passed it.
+
+But no more than the sacristan is the hemp-dresser gifted solely
+with the desire of frightening; he loves to make people laugh; he is
+sarcastic and sentimental at need, when love and marriage are to be
+sung. It is he who collects and keeps stored in his memory the oldest
+songs, and who transmits them to posterity. And so it is he who acts at
+weddings the part we shall see him play at the presentation of little
+Marie's favors.
+
+
+
+
+II -- The Wedding Favors
+
+WHEN all the guests were met together in the house, the doors and
+windows were closed with the utmost care; even the garret window was
+barricaded; boards and benches, logs and tables were placed behind every
+entrance, just as if the inhabitants were making ready to sustain a
+siege; and within these fortifications solemn stillness prevailed until
+at a distance were heard songs and laughter and the sounds of rustic
+music. It was the band of the bridegroom, Germain at the head, followed
+by his most trusty companions and by the grave-digger, relatives,
+friends, and servants, who formed a compact and merry train. Meanwhile,
+as they came nearer the house they slackened their pace, held a council
+of war, and became silent. The girls, shut up in the house, had arranged
+little loop-holes at the windows by which they could see the enemy
+approach and deploy in battle array. A fine, cold rain was falling,
+which added zest to the situation, while a great tire blazed on the
+hearth within. Marie wished to cut short the inevitable slowness of this
+well-ordered siege; she had no desire to see her lover catch cold,
+but not being in authority she had to take an ostensible share in the
+mischievous cruelty of her companions.
+
+When the two armies met, a discharge of firearms on the part of the
+besiegers set all the dogs in the neighborhood to barking. Those within
+the house dashed at the door with loud yelps, thinking that the attack
+was in earnest, and the children, little reassured by the efforts of
+their mothers, began to weep and to tremble. The whole scene was played
+so well that a stranger would have been deceived, and would have made
+his preparations to tight a band of brigands. Then the grave-digger,
+bard and orator of the groom, took his stand before the door, and with
+a rueful voice, exchanged the following dialogue with the hemp-dresser,
+who was stationed above the same door:
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "Ah, my good people, my fellow-townsmen, for the
+love of Heaven, open the door."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "Who are you, and what right have you to call us
+your dear fellow-townsmen? We don't know you."
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "We are worthy folk in great distress. Don't be
+afraid of us, my friends. Extend us your hospitality. Sleet is falling;
+our poor feet are frozen, and our journey home has been so long that our
+sabots are split."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "If your sabots are split, you can look on
+the ground; you will find very soon a sprig of willow to make some
+_arcelets_ [small curved blades of iron which are fastened on split
+sabots to hold them together]."
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "Willow _arcelets_ are scarcely strong enough. You
+are making fun of us, good people, and you would do better to open your
+doors. We can see a splendid fire blazing in your dwelling. The spit
+must be turning, and we can make merry with you, heart and belly. So
+open your doors to poor pilgrims who will die on the threshold if you
+are not merciful."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "Ah ha! so you are pilgrims? You never told us that.
+And what pilgrimage do you come from, may I ask?"
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "We shall tell you that when you open the door, for
+we come from so far that you would never believe it."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "Open the door to you? I rather think not. We can't
+trust you. Tell us, is it from Saint Sylvain of Pouligny that you come?"
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "We have been at Saint Sylvain of Pouligny, but we
+have been farther still."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "Then you have been as far as Saint Solange?"
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "At Saint Solange we have been, sure enough, but we
+have been farther yet."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "You are lying. You have never been as far as Saint
+Solange."
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "We have been farther, for now we are come from
+Saint Jacques of Compostelle."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "What absurdity are you telling us? We don't know
+that parish. We can easily see that you are bad people, brigands,
+nobodies, and liars. Go away with your nonsense. We are on our guard.
+You can't come in."
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "Ah, my poor fellow, take pity on us. We are not
+pilgrims, as you have guessed, but we are unlucky poachers pursued by
+the keepers. Even the police are after us, and if you don't hide us in
+your hay-loft, we shall be taken and led off to prison."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "And who will prove you are what you say you
+are, this time? For you have told us one lie already that you can't
+maintain."
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "If you will let us in, we shall show you a pretty
+piece of game we have killed."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "Show it right away, for we have our suspicions."
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "All right, open the door or a window to let us pass
+the creature in."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "Oh, no, not quite so foolish. I am looking at you
+through a little chink, and I can see neither hunters nor game amongst
+you."
+
+Here an ox-driver, a thick-set fellow of herculean strength, detached
+himself from a group where he had stood unperceived, and raised toward
+the window a plucked goose, spitted on a strong iron bar decorated with
+tufts of straw and ribbons.
+
+"Ho, ho!" cried the hemp-dresser, after cautiously extending an arm to
+feel the roast. "That is n't a quail nor a partridge; it is n't a hare
+nor a rabbit; it 's something like a goose or a turkey. Upon my word,
+you 're clever hunters, and that game did n't make you run very far.
+Move on, you rogues; we know all your lies, and you had best go home and
+cook your supper. You are not going to eat ours."
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "O Heavens, where can we go to cook our game? It is
+very little for so many as we, and, besides, we have neither place nor
+fire. At this time every door is closed, and every soul asleep. You are
+the only people who are celebrating a wedding at home, and you must he
+hardhearted indeed to let us freeze outside. Once again, good people,
+open the door; we shall not cost you anything. You can see that we bring
+our own meat; only a little room at your hearth, a little blaze to cook
+with, and we shall go on our way rejoicing."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "Do you suppose that we have too much room here, and
+that wood is bought tor nothing?"
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "We have here a small bundle of hay to make the
+fire. We shall be satisfied with that; only grant us leave to place the
+spit across your fireplace."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "That will never do. We are disgusted, and don't
+pity you at all. It is my opinion that you are drunk, that you need
+nothing, and that you only wish to come in and steal away our fire and
+our daughters."
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "Since you won't listen to reason, we shall make our
+way in by force."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "Try, if you want; we are shut in well enough to
+have no fear of you, and since you are impudent fellows, we shall not
+answer you again."
+
+Thereupon the hemp-dresser shut the garret window with a bang, and came
+down into the room below by a step-ladder. Then he took the bride by
+the hand, the young people of both sexes followed, and they all began to
+sing and chatter merrily, while the matrons sang in piercing voices, and
+shrieked with laughter in derision and bravado at those without who were
+attempting an attack.
+
+The besiegers, on their side, made a great hubbub. They discharged their
+pistols at the doors, made the dogs growl, whacked the walls, shook
+the blinds, and uttered frightful shrieks. In short, there was such a
+pandemonium that nobody could hear, and such a cloud of dust that nobody
+could see.
+
+And yet this attack was all a sham. The time had not come for breaking
+through the etiquette. If, in prowling about, anybody were to find an
+unguarded aperture, or any opening whatsoever, he might try to slip in
+unobserved, and then, if the carrier of the spit succeeded in placing
+his roast before the fire, and thus prove the capture of the hearth, the
+comedy was over and the bridegroom had conquered.
+
+The entrances of the house, however, were not numerous enough for any to
+be neglected in the customary precautions, and nobody might use violence
+before the moment fixed for the struggle.
+
+When they were weary of dancing and screams, the hemp-dresser began
+to think of capitulation. He went up to his window, opened it with
+precaution, and greeted the baffled assailants with a burst of laughter.
+
+"Well, my boys," said he, "you look very sheep-faced. You thought there
+was nothing easier than to come in, and you see that our defense is
+good. But we are beginning to have pity on you, if you will submit and
+accept our conditions."
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "Speak, good people. Tell us what we must do to
+approach your hearth."
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_: "You must sing, my friends; but sing a song we don't
+know,--one that we can't answer by a better."
+
+"That 's not hard to do," answered the grave-digger, and he thundered in
+a powerful voice: "'Six months ago, 'twas in the spring...'"
+
+"'I wandered through the sprouting grass,'" answered the hemp-dresser
+in a slightly hoarse but terrible voice. "You must be jesting, my poor
+friends, singing us such time-worn songs. You see very well that we can
+stop you at the first word."
+
+     "'She was a prince's daughter...'"
+
+"'Right gladly would she wed,'" answered the hemp-dresser. "Come, move
+on to the next; we know that a little too well."
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "How do you like this one?--
+
+     "'As I was journeying home from Nantes.'"
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_:
+
+     "'Weary, oh, weary, was I, was I.'"
+
+"That dates from my grandmother's time. Let's have another."
+
+ _The Grave-digger_:
+
+     "'One day I went a-walking...'"
+
+_The Hemp-dresser_:
+
+     "'Along a lovely wood!'"
+
+"That one is too stupid! Our little children would n't take the trouble
+to answer you. What! Are these all you know?"
+
+_The Grave-digger_: "Oh, we shall sing you so many that you will never
+be able to hear them all."
+
+In this way a full hour passed. As the two antagonists were champions
+of the country round in the matter of songs, and as their store seemed
+inexhaustible, the contest might last all night with ease, all the
+more because the hemp-dresser, with a touch of malice, allowed several
+ballads of ten, twenty, or thirty couplets to be sung through, feigning
+by his silence to admit his defeat. Then the bridegroom's camp rejoiced
+and sang aloud in chorus, and thought that this time the foe was
+worsted; but at the first line of the last couplet, they heard the
+hoarse croaking of the old hemp-dresser bellow forth the second rhyme.
+Then he cried:
+
+"You need not tire yourselves by singing such a long one, my
+children--we know that one to our finger-tips."
+
+Once or twice, however, the hemp-dresser made a wry face, contracted his
+brow, and turned toward the expectant housewives with a baffled air.
+The grave-digger was singing something so old that his adversary had
+forgotten it, or perhaps had never even heard it; but instantly the good
+gossips chanted the victorious refrain through their noses with voices
+shrill as a sea-mew's, and the grave-digger, forced to surrender, went
+on to fresh attempts.
+
+It would have taken too long to wait for a decision of the victory. The
+bride's party declared itself disposed to be merciful, provided that the
+bride were given a present worthy of her.
+
+Then began the song of the favors to a tune solemn as a church chant.
+
+The men without sang together in bass voices:
+
+     "'Open the door, true love,
+     Open the door; I have presents for you, love,
+     Oh, say not adieu, love.'"
+
+To this the women answered from within in falsetto, with mournful
+voices:
+
+     "'My father is sorry, my mother is sad,
+     And I am a maiden too kind by far
+     At such an hour my gate to unbar.'"
+
+The men took up the first verse as far as the fourth line and modified
+it thus:
+
+     "'And a handkerchief new, love.'"
+
+But, on behalf of the bride, the women answered in the same way as at
+first.
+
+For twenty couplets, at least, the men enumerated all the
+wedding-presents, always mentioning something new in the last line: a
+handsome apron, pretty ribbons, a cloth dress, laces, a golden cross,
+and even a hundred pins to complete the modest list of wedding-presents.
+The refusal of the women could not be shaken, but at length the men
+decided to speak of
+
+     "A good husband, too, love."
+
+And the women answered, turning toward the bride and singing in unison
+with the men:
+
+     "'Open the door, true love,
+     Open the door;
+     Here's a sweetheart for you, love,
+     Pray let us enter, too, love.'"
+
+
+
+
+III -- The Wedding
+
+IMMEDIATELY the hemp-dresser drew back the wooden bolt which barred the
+door within. At this time it was still the only fastening known in most
+of the dwellings of our hamlet. The groom's band burst into the bride's
+house, but not without a struggle; for the young men quartered within,
+and even the old hemp-dresser and the gossips, made it their duty to
+defend the hearth. The spit-bearer, upheld by his supporters, had to
+plant the roast before the fireplace. It was a regular battle, although
+people abstained from striking, and there was no anger shown in this
+struggle. But everybody was pushing and shoving so hard, and there was
+so much playful pride in this display of muscular strength, that the
+results might well have been serious, although they did not appear so
+across the laughs and songs. The poor old hemp-dresser, fighting like a
+lion, was pinned to the wall and squeezed by the crowd until his breath
+almost left him. More than one champion was upset and trodden under foot
+involuntarily; more than one hand, jammed against the spit, was covered
+with blood. These games are dangerous, and latterly the accidents have
+been so severe that our peasants have determined to allow the ceremony
+of the favors to fall into disuse; I believe we saw the last at the
+marriage of Francois Meillant, although there was no real struggle on
+that occasion.
+
+The battle was earnest enough, however, at Germain's wedding. It was
+a point of honor on one side to invade, on the other to defend, Mother
+Guillette's hearth. The great spit was twisted like a screw beneath
+the strong fists which fought for it A pistol-shot set fire to a small
+quantity of hemp arranged in sheaves and laid on a wicker shelf near
+the ceiling. This incident created a diversion, and while some of the
+company crowded about to extinguish the sparks, the grave-digger, who
+had climbed unbeknown into the garret, came down the chimney and seized
+the spit, at the very moment when the ox-driver, who was defending it
+near the hearth, raised it above his head to prevent it from being torn
+away. Some time before the attack, the women had taken the precaution
+to put out the fire lest in the struggle somebody should fall in and get
+burned. The jocular grave-digger, in league with the ox-driver, grasped
+the trophy and tossed it easily across the andirons. It was done! Nobody
+might interfere. The grave-digger sprang to the middle of the room
+and lighted a few wisps of straw, which he placed about the spit under
+pretense of cooking the roast, for the goose was in pieces and the floor
+was strewn with its scattered fragments.
+
+Then there was a great deal of laughter and much boastful dispute.
+Everybody showed the marks of the blows he had received, and as it
+was often a friend's hand that had struck them, there was no word of
+complaint nor of quarreling. The hemp-dresser, half flattened out, kept
+rubbing the small of his back and saying that, although it made small
+difference to him, he protested against the ruse of his friend, the
+grave-digger, and that if he had not been half dead, the hearth had
+never been captured so easily. The women swept the floor and order
+was restored. The table was covered with jugs of new wine. When the
+contestants had drunk together and taken breath, the bridegroom was led
+to the middle of the chamber, and, armed with a wand, he was obliged to
+submit to a fresh trial.
+
+During the struggle, the bride and three of her companions had been
+hidden by her mother, godmother, and aunts, who had made the four girls
+sit down in a remote corner of the room while they covered them with
+a large white cloth. Three friends of Marie's height, with caps of a
+uniform size, were chosen, so that when they were enveloped from head to
+toe by the cloth it was impossible to tell them apart.
+
+The bridegroom might not touch them, except with the tip of his staff,
+and then merely to designate which he thought to be his wife. They
+allowed him time enough to make an examination with no other help than
+his eyes afforded, and the women, placed on either side, kept zealous
+watch lest cheating should occur. Should he guess wrong, he might not
+dance, with his bride, but only with her he had chosen by mistake.
+
+When Germain stood in front of these ghosts wrapped in the same shroud,
+he feared he should make a wrong choice; and, in truth, that had
+happened to many another, so carefully and conscientiously were the
+precautions made. His heart beat loud. Little Marie did her best to
+breathe hard and shake the cloth a little, but her malicious companions
+followed her example, and kept poking the cloth with their fingers, so
+that there were as many mysterious signals as there were girls beneath
+the canopy. The square head-dresses upheld the cloth so evenly that it
+was impossible to discern the contour of a brow outlined by its folds.
+
+After ten minutes' hesitation, Germain shut his eyes, commended his soul
+to God, and stretched out the wand at random. It touched the forehead
+of little Marie, who cast the cloth from her, and shouted with triumph.
+Then it was his right to kiss her, and lifting her in his strong arms,
+he bore her to the middle of the room, where together they opened the
+dance, which lasted until two in the morning. The company separated to
+meet again at eight. As many people had come from the country round, and
+as there were not beds enough for everybody, each of the village
+maidens took to her bed two or three other girls, while the men spread
+themselves pell-mell on the hay in the barn-loft. You can imagine well
+that they had little sleep, for they did nothing but wrestle and joke,
+and tell foolish stories. Properly, there were three sleepless nights at
+weddings, and these we cannot regret.
+
+At the time appointed for departure, when they had partaken of
+milk-soup, seasoned with a strong dose of pepper to stimulate the
+appetite,--for the wedding-feast gave promise of great bounty,--the
+guests assembled in the farm-yard. Since our parish had been abolished,
+we had to go half a league from home to receive the marriage blessing.
+It was cool and pleasant weather, but the roads were in such wretched
+condition that everybody was on horseback, and each man took a companion
+on his crupper, whether she were young or old. Germain started on the
+gray, and the mare, well-groomed, freshly shod, and decked out
+with ribbons, pranced about and snorted fire from her nostrils. The
+husbandman went to the cottage for his bride in company with his
+brother-in-law, Jacques, who rode the old gray, and carried Mother
+Guillette on the crupper, while Germain returned to the farm-yard in
+triumph, holding his dear little wife before him.
+
+Then the merry cavalcade set out, escorted by the children, who ran
+ahead and fired off their pistols to make the horses jump. Mother
+Maurice was seated in a small cart, with Germain's three children and
+the fiddlers. They led the march to the sound of their instruments.
+Petit-Pierre was so handsome that his old grandmother was pride itself.
+But the eager child did not stay long at her side. During a moment's
+halt made on the journey, before passing through a difficult piece of
+road, he slipped away and ran to beg his father to carry him in front on
+the gray.
+
+"No, no," replied Germain, "that will call forth some disagreeable joke;
+we must n't do it."
+
+"It's little that I care what the people of Saint Chartier say," said
+little Marie. "Take him up, Germain, please do; I shall be prouder of
+him than I am of my wedding-gown."
+
+Germain yielded, and the pretty trio darted into the crowd borne by the
+triumphant gallop of the gray.
+
+And so it was; the people of Saint Chartier, although they were very
+sarcastic, and somewhat disdainful of the neighboring parishes which had
+been annexed to theirs, never thought of laughing when they saw such
+a handsome husband, such a lovely wife, and a child that a king's wife
+might court. Petit-Pierre was all dressed in light blue cloth, with a
+smart red waistcoat so short that it descended scarcely below his chin.
+The village tailor had fitted his armholes so tight that he could not
+bring his two little hands together. But, oh, how proud he was! He wore
+a round hat, with a black-and-gold cord, and a peacock's plume which
+stuck out proudly from a tuft of guinea feathers. A bunch of flowers,
+bigger than his head, covered his shoulder, and ribbons fluttered to his
+feet The hemp-dresser, who was also the barber and hair-dresser of the
+district, had cut his hair evenly, by covering his head with a bowl, and
+clipping off the protruding locks, an infallible method for guiding the
+shears. Thus arrayed, the poor child was less poetic, certainly, than
+with his curls streaming in the wind, and his Saint John Baptist's
+sheepskin about him; but he knew nothing of this, and everybody admired
+him and said that he had quite the air of a little man. His beauty
+triumphed over everything, for what is there over which the exceeding
+beauty of childhood could not triumph?
+
+His little sister, Solange, had, for the first time in her life, a
+peasant's cap in place of the calico hood which little girls wear until
+they are two or three years old. And what a cap it was! Longer and
+larger than the poor little thing's whole body. How beautiful she
+thought it! She dared not even turn her head; so she kept quite still
+and thought the people would take her for the bride.
+
+As for little Sylvain, he was still in long clothes, and, fast asleep on
+his grandmother's knees, he did not even know what a wedding was.
+
+Germain looked at his children tenderly, and when they reached the town
+hall, he said to his bride:
+
+"Marie, I have come here with a happier heart than I had the day when I
+brought you home from the forest of Chanteloube, thinking that you could
+never love me. I took you in my arms to put you on the ground as I do
+here; but I thought that never again should we be mounted on the good
+gray with the child on our knees. I love you so dearly, I love these
+little creatures so dearly, I am so happy that you love me and that you
+love them, and that my family love you, and I love your mother so well
+and all my friends so well, and everybody else so well today, that I
+wish I had three or four hearts to fill all of them; for surely one is
+too small to hold so much love and so much happiness. It almost makes my
+stomach ache."
+
+There was a crowd at the door of the town hall and another at the church
+to see the pretty bride. Why should we not tell about her dress? it
+became her so well. Her muslin cap, without spot and covered with
+embroidery, had lappets trimmed with lace. At that time peasant women
+never allowed a single lock to be seen, and, although they conceal
+beneath their caps splendid coils of hair tied up with tape to hold the
+coif in place, even to-day it would be thought a scandal and a shame for
+them to show themselves bareheaded to men. Nowadays, however, they allow
+a slender braid to appear over their foreheads, and this improves their
+appearance very much. Yet I regret the classic head-dress of my time;
+its spotless laces next the bare skin gave an effect of pristine purity
+which seemed to me very solemn; and when a face looked beautiful thus it
+was with a beauty of which nothing can express the charm and unaffected
+majesty.
+
+Little Marie wore her cap thus, and her forehead was so white and so
+pure that it defied the whiteness of linen to cast it in the shade.
+Although she had not closed an eye the night before, the morning air
+and, yet more, the joy within of a soul pure as the heaven, and, more
+than all, a small secret flame guarded with the modesty of girlhood,
+caused a bloom to mount to her cheeks delicate as the peach-blossom in
+the first beams of an April sun.
+
+Her white scarf, modestly crossed over her breast, left visible only the
+soft curves of a neck rounded like a turtle-dove's; her home-made cloth
+gown of myrtle-green outlined her pretty figure, which looked already
+perfect, yet which must still grow and develop, for she was but
+seventeen. She wore an apron of violet silk with the bib our peasant
+women were so foolish as to suppress, which added so much elegance and
+decency to the breast. Nowadays they display their scarfs more proudly,
+but there is no longer in their dress that delicate flower of the purity
+of long ago, which made them look like Holbein's virgins. They are more
+forward and more profuse in their courtesies. The good old custom used
+to be a kind of staid reserve which made their rare smile deeper and
+more ideal.
+
+During the offertory, after the fashion of the day, Germain placed the
+"thirteen"--that is to say, thirteen pieces of silver--in his bride's
+hand. He slipped over her finger a silver ring of a form unchanged
+for centuries, but which is replaced for henceforth by the golden
+wedding-ring. As they walked out of church, Marie said in a low voice:
+
+"Is this really the ring I wanted? Is it the one I asked you for,
+Germain?"
+
+"Yes," answered he, "my Catherine wore it on her finger when she died.
+There is but one ring for both my weddings."
+
+"Thank you, Germain," said the young woman, in a serious and impressive
+tone. "I shall die with it on, and if I go before you, you must keep it
+for the marriage of your little Solange."
+
+
+
+
+IV -- The Cabbage
+
+THEY mounted and returned very quickly to Belair. The feast was
+bountiful, and, mingled with songs and dances, it lasted until
+midnight. For fourteen hours the old people did not leave the table. The
+grave-digger did the cooking, and did it very well. He was celebrated
+for this, and he would leave his fire to come in and dance and sing
+before and after every course. And yet this poor Father Bontemps was
+epileptic. Who would have thought it? He was fresh and strong, and merry
+as a young man. One day we found him in a ditch, struck down by his
+malady at nightfall. We carried him home with us, in a wheelbarrow, and
+we spent all night in caring for him. Three days afterward, he was at a
+wedding, singing like a thrush, jumping like a kid, and bustling about
+after his old fashion. When he left a marriage, he would go to dig a
+grave, and nail up a coffin. Then he would become very grave, and
+though nothing of this appeared in his gay humor, it left a melancholy
+impression which hastened the return of his attacks. His wife was
+paralyzed, and had not stirred from her chair for twenty years. His
+mother is living yet, at a hundred and forty, but he, poor man, so happy
+and good and amusing, was killed last year by falling from his loft
+to the sidewalk. Doubtless he died a victim to a fatal attack of his
+disease, and, as was his habit, had hidden in the hay, so as not to
+frighten and distress his family. In this tragic manner he ended a life
+strange as his disposition--a medley of things sad and mad, awful and
+gay; and, in the midst of all, his heart was ever good and his nature
+kind.
+
+Now we come to the third day of the wedding, the most curious of all,
+which is kept to-day in all its vigor. We shall not speak of the roast
+which they carry to the bridal bed; it is a very silly custom, and hurts
+the self-respect of the bride, while it tends to ruin the modesty of
+the attendant girls. Besides, I believe that it is practised in all the
+provinces, and does not belong peculiarly to our own.
+
+Just as the ceremony of the wedding favors is a symbol that the heart
+and home of the bride are won, that of the cabbage is a symbol of the
+fruit-fulness of marriage. When breakfast is over on the day after the
+wedding, this fantastic representation begins. Originally of Gallic
+derivation, it has passed through primitive Christianity, and little by
+little it has become a kind of mystery, or droll morality-play of the
+Middle Ages.
+
+Two boys, the merriest and most intelligent of the company, disappear
+from breakfast, and after costuming themselves, return escorted by dogs,
+children, and pistol-shots. They represent a pair of beggars--husband
+and wife--dressed in rags. The husband is the filthier of the two; it is
+vice which has brought him so low; the wife is unhappy and degraded only
+through the misdeeds of her husband.
+
+They are called the gardener and the gardener's wife, and they pretend
+it is their duty to guard and care for the sacred cabbage. The husband
+has several names, each with a meaning. Sometimes they call him the
+"scarecrow," because his head is covered with straw or hemp, and because
+his legs and a portion of his body are surrounded with straw to hide
+his nakedness, ill concealed by his rags. He has also a great belly,
+or hump, constructed of straw or hay underneath his blouse. Then he is
+known as the "ragamuffin," on account of his covering of rags. Lastly he
+is termed the "infidel," and this is most significant of all, because by
+his cynicism and his debauchery he is supposed to typify the opposite of
+every Christian virtue.
+
+He comes with his face all smeared with soot and the lees of wine, and
+sometimes made yet more hideous by a grotesque mask. An earthenware cup,
+notched and broken, or an old sabot attached to his girdle by a cord,
+shows that he has come to beg for alms of wine. Nobody refuses him, and
+he pretends to drink; then he pours the wine on the ground by way of
+libation. At every step he falls, rolls in the mud, and feigns to be
+a prey to the most shameful drunkenness. His poor wife runs after him,
+picks him up, calls for help, arranges his hempen locks, which straggle
+forth in unkempt wisps from beneath his filthy hat, sheds tears over her
+husband's degradation, and pours forth pathetic reproaches.
+
+"Wretched man," she cries, "see the misery to which your wickedness
+has brought us. I have to spend all my time sewing and working for you,
+mending your clothes. You tear and bedraggle yourself incessantly. You
+have eaten up all my little property; our six children lie on straw, and
+we are living in a stable with the beasts. Here we are forced to beg for
+alms, and, besides, you are so ugly and vile and despicable that very
+soon they will be tossing us bread as if we were dogs. Ah, my poor
+people, take pity on us! Take pity on me! I have n't deserved my lot,
+and never had woman a more dirty and detestable husband. Help me to
+pick him up, else the wagons will run over him as they run over broken
+bottles, and I shall be a widow, and that will end by killing me with
+grief, though all the world says it would be an excellent riddance
+for me." Such is the part of the gardener's wife, and her continued
+lamentations last during the entire play. For it is a genuine
+spontaneous comedy acted on the spur of the moment in the open air,
+along the roads and across the fields, aided by every chance occurrence
+that presents itself. Everybody shares in the acting, people within the
+wedding-party and people without, wayfarers and dwellers in houses, for
+three or four hours of the day, as we shall see. The theme is always the
+same, but the variations are infinite; and it is here that we can see
+the instinct of mimicry, the abundance of droll ideas, the fluency, the
+wit at repartee, and even the natural eloquence of our peasants.
+
+The role of gardener's wife is intrusted commonly to a slender man,
+beardless and fresh of face, who can give a great appearance of truth to
+his personification and plays the burlesque despair naturally enough to
+make people sad and glad at once, as they are in real life. These thin,
+beardless men are not rare among us, and, strangely enough, they are
+sometimes most remarkable for their muscular strength.
+
+When the wife's misfortunes have been explained, the young men of the
+company try to persuade her to leave her drunken husband and to amuse
+herself with them. They offer her their arms and drag her away. Little
+by little she gives way; her spirits rise, and she begins to run about,
+first with one and then with another, and grows more scandalous in her
+behavior: a fresh "morality"; the ill-conduct of the husband excites and
+aggravates the evil in the wife.
+
+Then the "infidel" wakes from his drunkenness. He looks about for his
+companion, arms himself with a rope and a stick and rushes after her.
+They make him run, they hide, they pass the wife from one to another,
+they try to divert her attention and to deceive her jealous spouse. His
+friends try to get him drunk. At length he catches his unfaithful wife,
+and wishes to beat her. What is truest and most carefully portrayed in
+this play is that the jealous husband never attacks the men who carry
+off his wife. He is very polite and prudent with them, and wishes only
+to take vengeance on the sinning woman, because she is supposed to be
+too feeble to offer resistance.
+
+At the moment, however, when he raises his stick and prepares his cord
+to strike the delinquent, all the men in the party interpose and throw
+themselves between husband and wife.
+
+"Don't strike her! Never strike your wife," is the formula repeated to
+satiety during these scenes. They disarm the husband, and force him to
+pardon and to kiss his wife, and soon he pretends to love her better
+than ever. He walks along, his arm linked in hers, singing and dancing
+until, in a new access of drunkenness, he rolls upon the ground,
+and then begin all over again the lamentations of the wife, her
+discouragements, her pretended unfaithfulness, her husband's jealousy,
+the interference of the neighbors, and the reconciliation. In all
+this there is a simple and even coarse lesson, which, though it savors
+strongly of its Middle-Age origin, does not fail to fix its impression
+if not on the married folk, who are too loving or too sensible to
+have need of it, at least upon the children and the young people. The
+"infidel," racing after young girls and pretending to wish to kiss them,
+frightens and disgusts them to such a degree that they fly in unaffected
+terror. His dirty face and his great stick, harmless as it is, make
+the children shriek aloud. It is the comedy of customs in their most
+elementary but their most striking state.
+
+When this farce is well under way, people make ready to hunt for the
+cabbage. They bring a stretcher and place upon it the "infidel," armed
+with a spade, a cord, and a large basket. Four powerful men raise him
+on their shoulders. His wife follows on foot, and after her come
+the "elders" in a body with serious and thoughtful looks; then the
+wedding-march begins by couples to a step tuned to music. Pistol-shots
+begin anew, and dogs bark louder than ever at the sight of the filthy
+"infidel" borne aloft in triumph. The children swing incense in derision
+with sabots fastened at the end of a cord.
+
+But why this ovation to an object so repulsive? They are marching to the
+capture of the sacred cabbage, emblem of the fruitfulness of marriage,
+and it is this drunkard alone who can bear the symbolic plant in his
+hand. Doubtless, there is in it a pre-Christian mystery which recalls
+the Saturnalian feasts or some rout of the Bacchanals. Perhaps this
+"infidel," who is, at the same time, preeminently a gardener, is
+none other than Priapus himself, god of gardens and of drunkenness, a
+divinity who must have been pure and serious in his origin as is the
+mystery of birth, but who has been degraded bit by bit through license
+of manners and distraction of thought.
+
+However this may be, the triumphal procession arrives at the bride's
+house, and enters the garden. Then they select the choicest cabbage, and
+this is not done very quickly, for the old people keep consulting and
+disputing interminably, each one pleading for the cabbage he thinks most
+suitable. They put it to vote, and when the choice is made the gardener
+fastens his cord to the stalk, and moves away as far as the size of the
+garden permits. The gardener's wife takes care that the sacred
+vegetable shall not be hurt in its fall. The wits of the wedding, the
+hemp-dresser, the grave-digger, the carpenter, and the sabot-maker, form
+a ring about the cabbage, for men who do not till the soil, but pass
+their lives in other people's houses, are thought to be, and are really,
+wittier and more talkative than simple farmhands. One digs, with a
+spade, a ditch deep enough to uproot an oak. Another places on his
+nose a pair of wooden or cardboard spectacles. He fulfils the duties of
+"engineer," walks up and down, constructs a plan, stares at the workmen
+through his glasses, plays the pedant, cries out that everything will be
+spoiled, has the work stopped and begun afresh as his fancy directs, and
+makes the whole performance as long and ridiculous as he can. This is
+an addition to the formula of an ancient ceremony held in mockery of
+theorists in general, for peasants despise them royally, or from hatred
+of the surveyors who decide boundaries and regulate taxes, or of the
+workmen employed on bridges and causeways, who transform commons into
+highways, and suppress old abuses which the peasants love. Be this as it
+may, this character in the comedy is called the "geometrician," and
+does his best to make himself unbearable to those who are toiling with
+pickaxe and shovel.
+
+After a quarter of an hour spent in mummery, and difficulties raised in
+order to avoid cutting the roots, and to transplant the cabbage without
+injury, while shovelfuls of dirt are tossed into the faces of the
+onlookers,--so much the worse for him who does not retreat in time,
+for were he bishop or prince he must receive the baptism of earth,--the
+"infidel" pulls the rope, the "infidel's wife" holds her apron, and the
+cabbage falls majestically amidst the applause of the spectators. Then a
+basket is brought, and the "infidel" pair plant the cabbage therein
+with every care and precaution. They surround it with fresh earth, and
+support it with sticks and strings, such as city florists use for their
+splendid potted camellias; they fix red apples to the points of the
+sticks, and twist sprigs of thyme, sage, and laurel all about them; they
+bedeck the whole with ribbons and streamers; they place the trophy
+upon the stretcher with the "infidel," whose duty it is to maintain its
+equilibrium and preserve it from harm; and, at length, they move away
+from the garden in good order and in marching step.
+
+But when they are about to pass the gate, and again when they enter the
+yard of the bridegroom's house, an imaginary obstacle blocks the way.
+The bearers of the burden stagger, utter loud cries, retreat, advance
+once more, and, as though crushed by a resistless force, they pretend
+to sink beneath its weight. While this is going on, the bystanders shout
+loudly, exciting and steadying this human team.
+
+"Slowly, slowly, my child. There, there, courage! Look out! Be patient!
+Lower your head; the door is too low! Close up; it's too narrow! A little
+more to the left; now to the right; on with you; don't be afraid; you
+'re almost there."
+
+Thus it is that in years of plentiful harvest, the ox-cart, loaded to
+overflowing with hay or corn, is too broad or too high to enter the
+barn door. Thus it is that the driver shouts at the strong beasts, to
+restrain them or to urge them on; thus it is that with skill and mighty
+efforts they force this mountain of riches beneath the rustic arch of
+triumph. It is, above all, the last load, called "the cart of sheaves,"
+which requires these precautions, for this is a rural festival, and
+the last sheaf lifted from the last furrow is placed on the top of the
+cart-load ornamented with ribbons and flowers, while the foreheads of
+the oxen and the whip of the driver are decorated also. The triumphant
+and toilsome entry of the cabbage into the house is a symbol of the
+prosperity and fruitfulness it represents.
+
+Safe within the bridegroom's yard, the cabbage is taken from its
+stretcher and borne to the topmost peak of the house or barn. Whether it
+be a chimney, a gable, or a dove-cote that crowns the roof, the burden
+must, at any risk, be carried to the very highest point of the building.
+The "infidel" accompanies it as far as this, sets it down securely, and
+waters it with a great pitcher of wine, while a salvo of pistol-shots
+and demonstrations of joy from the "infidel's wife" proclaim its
+inauguration.
+
+Without delay, the same ceremony is repeated all over again. Another
+cabbage is dug from the garden of the husband and is carried with the
+same formalities and laid upon the roof which his wife has deserted to
+follow him. These trophies remain in their places until the wind and the
+rain destroy the baskets and carry away the cabbage. Yet their lives are
+long enough to give some chance of fulfilment to the prophecies which
+the old men and women make with bows and courtesies.
+
+"Beautiful cabbage," they say, "live and flourish that our young bride
+may have a fine baby before a year is over; for if you die too quickly
+it is a sign of barrenness, and you will stick up there like an ill
+omen."
+
+The day is already far gone when all these things are accomplished. All
+that remains undone is to take home the godfathers and godmothers of the
+newly married couple. When the so-called parents dwell at a distance,
+they are accompanied by the music and the whole wedding procession as
+far as the limits of the parish; there they dance anew on the highroad,
+and everybody kisses them good-by. The "infidel" and his wife are then
+washed and dressed decently, if the fatigue of their parts has not
+already driven them away to take a nap.
+
+Everybody was still dancing and singing and eating in the Town Hall of
+Belair at midnight on this third day of the wedding when Germain was
+married. The old men at table could not stir, and for good reason. They
+recovered neither their legs nor their wits until dawn on the morrow.
+While they were regaining their dwellings, silently and with uncertain
+steps, Germain, proud and active, went out to hitch his oxen, leaving
+his young wife to slumber until daylight. The lark, caroling as it
+mounted to the skies, seemed to him the voice of his heart returning
+thanks to Providence. The hoar-frost, sparkling on the leafless bushes,
+seemed to him the whiteness of April flowers that comes before the
+budding leaves. Everything in nature was laughing and happy for him.
+Little Pierre had laughed and jumped so much the evening before that he
+did not come to help lead his oxen; but Germain was glad to be alone.
+He fell on his knees in the furrow he was about to plow afresh, and said
+his morning prayer with such a burst of feeling that two tears rolled
+down his cheeks, still moist with sweat.
+
+Afar off he heard the songs of the boys from neighboring villages, who
+were starting on their return home, singing again in their hoarse voices
+the happy tunes of the night before.
+
+THE END.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Devil's Pool, by George Sand
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