"Well! why didn't you bring him, Germain? he wouldn't have been in the
way; he's so good when you do what he wants you to."

"It seems that he would have been in the way where I am going. At
least, that was PГЁre Maurice's opinion.--For my part, I should have
said, on the contrary, that we ought to see how he would be received,
and that nobody could help taking kindly to such a dear child.--But they
say at the house that I mustn't begin by exhibiting the burdens of the
household.--I don't know why I talk to you about this, little Marie: you
don't understand it."

"Yes, I do, Germain; I know you are going to get a wife; my mother told
me, and bade me not mention it to any one, either at home or where I am
going, and you needn't be afraid: I won't say a word."

"You will do well, for it isn't settled; perhaps I shan't suit the lady
in question."

"We must hope you will, Germain. Pray, why shouldn't you suit her?"

"Who knows? I have three children, and that's a heavy load for a woman
who isn't their mother!"

"That's true; but your children aren't like other children."

"Do you think so?"

"They are as beautiful as little angels, and so well brought up that you
can't find more lovable children anywhere."

"There's Sylvain, he's not over good."

"He's very small! he can't be anything but terrible; but he's so
bright!"

"True, he is bright: and such courage! he isn't a bit afraid of cows or
bulls, and if I would permit him, he'd be climbing up on the horses with
his older brother."

"If I had been in your place, I'd have brought the older one. Your
having such a beautiful child would surely make her love you on the
spot!"

"Yes, if the woman is fond of children; but suppose she doesn't like
them?"

"Are there women who don't like children?"

"Not many, I think; but there are some, and that is what worries me."

"Then you don't know this woman at all?"

"No more than you do, and I am afraid I shall not know her any better
after I have seen her. I am not suspicious. When any one says pleasant
words to me, I believe them; but I have had reason to repent more than
once, for words are not deeds."

"They say she's a fine woman."

"Who says so? PГЁre Maurice?"

"Yes, your father-in-law."

"That's all right; but he doesn't know her, either."

"Well, you will soon see her; you will be very careful, and it's to be
hoped you won't make any mistake, Germain."

"Look you, little Marie, I should be very glad if you would go into the
house for a little while before going on to Ormeaux: you're a shrewd
girl, you have always shown that you have a keen mind, and you notice
everything. If you see anything that makes you think, you can quietly
tell me about it."

"Oh! no, Germain, I wouldn't do that! I should be too much afraid of
being mistaken; and, besides, if a word spoken thoughtlessly should
disgust you with this marriage, your people would blame me for it, and I
have enough troubles without bringing fresh ones on my poor dear
mother's head."

As they were talking thus, Grise pricked up her ears and shied, then
retraced her steps and approached the hedge, where there was something
which had frightened her at first, but which she now began to recognize.
Germain looked at the hedge and saw something that he took for a lamb in
the ditch, under the branches of an oak still thick and green.

"It's a stray lamb," he said, "or a dead one, for it doesn't move.
Perhaps some one is looking for it; we must see."

"It isn't a lamb," cried little Marie; "it's a child asleep; it's your
Petit-Pierre."

"Upon my word!" exclaimed Germain, dismounting; "just see the little imp
lying there asleep, so far from home, and in a ditch, where a snake
might find him!"

He raised the child, who opened his eyes and smiled at him, saying, as
he threw his arms around his neck:

"Little father, you're going to take me with you!"

"Oh, yes! still the same song! what were you doing there, naughty
Pierre?"

"I was waiting for my little father to pass; I was looking out on the
road, and I looked so hard I went to sleep."

"And if I had passed without seeing you, you would have stayed out all
night and the wolf would have eaten you!"

"Oh! I knew you'd see me!" rejoined Petit-Pierre confidently.

"Well, kiss me now, Pierre, bid me good-by, and run back to the house if
you don't want them to have supper without you."

"Why, ain't you going to take me with you?" cried the child, beginning
to rub his eyes to show that he proposed to weep.

"You know grandpa and grandma don't approve of it," said Germain, taking
refuge behind the authority of the old people, like one who places but
slight reliance on his own.

But the child heard nothing. He began to cry in good earnest, saying
that as long as his father took little Marie, he could take him too. He
was told that they would have to go through great forests, that there
were many wicked animals there that ate little children, that Grise
would not carry three, that she said so when they started, and that in
the country they were going to there was no bed or supper for little
monkeys. All these excellent reasons did not convince Petit-Pierre; he
threw himself on the grass and rolled about, crying that his father did
not love him, and that, if he refused to take him with him, he would not
go back to the house day or night.

Germain's fatherly heart was as soft and weak as a woman's. His wife's
death, the care he had been compelled to bestow upon his little ones,
together with the thought that the poor motherless children needed to be
dearly loved, had combined to make it so, and such a hard struggle took
place within him, especially as he was ashamed of his weakness, and
tried to conceal his distress from little Marie, that the perspiration
stood out on his forehead and his eyes were bordered with red as if
they, too, were all ready to shed tears. Finally, he tried to be angry;
but as he turned to little Marie, as if to call her to witness his
firmness of will, he saw that the dear girl's face was bathed in tears,
and, all his courage deserting him, it was impossible for him to keep
back his own, although he continued to scold and threaten.

"Really, your heart is too hard," said little Marie at last, "and for my
part, I could never hold out like that against a child who is so
unhappy. Come, Germain, take him along. Your mare is used to carrying
two grown people and a child, for your brother-in-law and his wife, who
is much heavier than I am, go to market every Saturday, with their boy,
on the honest creature's back. You can put him up in front of you;
indeed, I'd rather go all alone on foot than make the little fellow
suffer so."

"Don't be disturbed about that," said Germain, who was dying with
anxiety to be persuaded. "Grise is strong, and would carry two more if
there was room on her backbone. But what shall we do with the child on
the way? he will be cold and hungry--and who will look after him
to-night and to-morrow, put him to bed, wash him and dress him? I don't
dare put that trouble on a woman whom I don't know, and who will think,
I have no doubt, that I stand very little on ceremony with her for a
beginning."

"According to the good-will or annoyance she shows, you will be able to
judge her at once, Germain, believe me; and at all events, if she
doesn't take to your Pierre, I will take charge of him. I will go to her
house to dress him, and I'll take him into the fields to-morrow. I'll
amuse him all day, and see that he has all he needs."

"And he'll tire you out, my poor girl! He'll be a burden to you! a whole
day--that's a long while!"

"On the contrary, I shall enjoy it; he will be company for me, and make
me less unhappy the first day I shall have to pass in a new country. I
shall fancy I am still at home."

The child, seeing that little Marie was taking his part, had clung to
her skirt and held it so tight that she would have had to hurt him to
take it away. When he saw that his father was yielding, he took Marie's
hand in both his little sunburned ones and kissed it, leaping for joy,
and pulling her toward the mare with the burning impatience that
children show in all their desires.

"Well, well," said the girl, taking him in her arms, "we must try to
soothe this poor heart that is jumping like a little bird's, and if you
feel cold when night comes, my Pierre, just tell me, and I'll wrap you
in my cloak. Kiss your little father, and ask him to forgive you for
being such a bad boy. Tell him that it shall never happen again! never,
do you hear?"

"Yes, yes, on condition that I always do what he wants me to, eh?" said
Germain, wiping the little fellow's eyes with his handkerchief. "Ah!
Marie, you will spoil the rascal for me!--And really, little Marie,
you're too good. I don't know why you didn't come to us as shepherdess
last midsummer. You could have taken care of my children, and I would
rather have paid you a good price for waiting on them than go in search
of a wife who will be very likely to think that she's doing me a great
favor by not detesting them."

[Illustration: Chapter VI

_He raised the child, who opened his eyes and smiled at him, saying, as
he threw his arms around his neck.

"Little father, you are going to take me with you_!"]

"You mustn't look on the dark side of things like that," replied little
Marie, holding the rein while Germain placed his son on the front of
the heavy goat-skin-covered saddle; "if your wife doesn't like children,
you can hire me next year, and I'll amuse them so well that they won't
notice anything, never you fear."




VII

ON THE MOOR


"By the way," said Germain, when they had ridden on a short distance,
"what will they think at home when this little man doesn't appear? The
old people will be anxious, and they will scour the country for him."

"You can tell the man working on the road yonder that you have taken him
with you, and send him back to tell your people."

"True, Marie, you think of everything! It didn't even occur to me that
Jeannie would be in this neighborhood."

"He lives close to the farm, too: he won't fail to do your errand."


When they had taken that precaution, Germain started the mare off at a
trot, and Petit Pierre was so overjoyed that he did not notice at first
that he had not dined; but as the rapid movement of the horse dug a pit
in his stomach, he began, after a league or more, to yawn and turn
pale, and at last confessed that he was dying of hunger.

"Now he's beginning," said Germain. "I knew that we shouldn't go far
before monsieur would cry from hunger or thirst."

"I'm thirsty, too!" said Petit-Pierre.

"Well, we will go to MГЁre Rebec's wine-shop at Corlay, at the sign of
the _Break of Day_. A fine sign, but a poor inn! Come, Marie, you will
drink a finger of wine too."

"No, no, I don't need anything," she said, "I'll hold the mare while you
go in with the little one."

"But now I think of it, my dear girl, you gave the bread you had for
your luncheon to my Pierre, and you haven't had anything to eat; you
refused to dine with us at the house, and did nothing but weep."

"Oh! I wasn't hungry, I was too sad! and I promise you that I haven't
the slightest desire to eat now."

"We must force you to, little one; otherwise you'll be sick. We have a
long way to go, and we mustn't arrive there half-starved, and ask for
bread before we say good-day. I propose to set you the example, although
I'm not very hungry; but I shall make out to eat, considering that I
didn't dine very well, either. I saw you and your mother weeping, and it
made my heart sick. Come, come, I will tie Grise at the door; get down,
I insist upon it."

All three entered Mere Rebec's establishment, and in less than a quarter
of an hour the stout, limping hostess succeeded in serving them an
omelet of respectable appearance with brown-bread and light wine.

Peasants do not eat quickly, and Petit-Pierre had such an enormous
appetite that nearly an hour passed before Germain could think of
renewing their journey. Little Marie ate to oblige at first; then her
appetite came, little by little; for at sixteen one cannot fast long,
and the country air is an imperious master. The kind words Germain said
to her to comfort her and give her courage also produced their effect;
she made an effort to persuade herself that seven months would soon be
passed, and to think how happy she would be to be at home once more, in
her own village, since PГЁre Maurice and Germain were agreed in promising
to take her into their service. But as she was beginning to brighten up
and play with Petit-Pierre, Germain conceived the unfortunate idea of
telling her to look out through the wine-shop window at the lovely view
of the valley, which they could see throughout its whole length from
that elevation, laughing and verdant and fertile. Marie looked, and
asked if they could see the houses at Belair from there.

"To be sure," replied Germain, "and the farm, and your house too. Look,
that little gray speck, not far from the great poplar at Godard, just
below the church-spire."

"Ah! I see it," said the girl; and thereupon she began to weep again.

"I did wrong to remind you of that," said Germain, "I keep doing foolish
things to-day! Come, Marie, my girl, let's be off; the days are short,
and when the moon comes up, an hour from now, it won't be warm."

They resumed their journey, and rode across the great heath, and as
Germain did not urge the mare, in order not to fatigue the girl and the
child by a too rapid gait, the sun had set when they left the road to
enter the woods.

Germain knew the road as far as Magnier; but he thought that he could
shorten it by not taking the avenue of Chanteloube, but going by Presles
and La SГ©pulture, a route which he was not in the habit of taking when
he went to the fair. He went astray and lost a little more time before
entering the woods; even then he did not enter at the right place, and
failed to discover his mistake, so that he turned his back to Fourche
and headed much farther up, in the direction of Ardentes.

He was prevented then from taking his bearings by a mist which came with
the darkness, one of those autumn evening mists which the white
moonlight makes more vague and more deceptive. The great pools of water
which abound in the clearings exhaled such dense vapor that when Grise
passed through them, they only knew it by the splashing of her feet and
the difficulty she had in pulling them out of the mud.

When they finally found a straight, level path, and had ridden to the
end of it, Germain, upon endeavoring to ascertain where he was, realized
that he was lost; for PГЁre Maurice, in describing the road, had told him
that, on leaving the woods, he would have to descend a very steep hill,
cross a very large meadow, and ford the river twice. He had advised him
to be cautious about riding into the river, because there had been heavy
rains at the beginning of the season, and the water might be a little
high. Seeing no steep hill, no meadow, no river, but the level moor,
white as a sheet of snow, Germain drew rein, looked about for a house,
waited for some one to pass, but saw nothing to give him any
information. Thereupon he retraced his steps, and rode back into the
woods. But the mist grew denser, the moon was altogether hidden, the
roads were very bad, the ruts deep. Twice Grise nearly fell; laden as
she was, she lost courage, and although she retained sufficient
discernment to avoid running against trees, she could not prevent her
riders from having to deal with huge branches which barred the road at
the level of their heads and put them in great danger. Germain lost his
hat in one of these encounters, and had great difficulty in finding it.
Petit-Pierre had fallen asleep, and, lying back like a log, so
embarrassed his father's arms that he could not hold the mare up or
guide her.

"I believe we're bewitched," said Germain, drawing rein once more: "for
these woods aren't big enough for a man to lose himself in unless he's
drunk, and here we have been riding round and round for two hours,
unable to get out of them. Grise has only one idea in her head, and that
is to go back to the house, and she was the one that made me go astray.
If we want to go home, we have only to give her her head. But when we
may be within two steps of the place where we are to spend the night,
we should be mad to give up finding it, and begin such a long ride over
again. But I don't know what to do. I can't see either the sky or the
ground, and I am afraid this child will take the fever if we stay in
this infernal fog, or be crushed by our weight if the horse should fall
forward."

"We mustn't persist in riding any farther," said little Marie. "Let's
get down, Germain; give me the child; I can carry him very well, and
keep him covered up with the cloak better than you can. You can lead the
mare, and perhaps we shall see better when we're nearer the ground."

That expedient succeeded only so far as to save them from a fall, for
the fog crawled along the damp earth and seemed to cling to it. It was
very hard walking, and they were so exhausted by it that they stopped
when they at last found a dry place under some great oaks. Little Marie
was drenched, but she did not complain or seem disturbed. Thinking only
of the child, she sat down in the sand and took him on her knees, while
Germain explored the neighborhood after throwing Grise's rein over the
branch of a tree.

But Grise, who was thoroughly disgusted with the journey, jumped back,
released the reins, broke the girths, and, kicking up her heels higher
than her head some half-dozen times, by way of salutation, started off
through the brush, showing very plainly that she needed no one's
assistance in finding her way.

"Well, well," said Germain, after he had tried in vain to catch her,
"here we are on foot, and it would do us no good if we should find the
right road, for we should have to cross the river on foot; and when we
see how full of water these roads are, we can be sure that the meadow is
under water. We don't know the other fords. So we must wait till the
mist rises; it can't last more than an hour or two. When we can see, we
will look for a house, the first one we can find on the edge of the
wood; but at present we can't stir from here; there's a ditch and a pond
and I don't know what not in front of us; and I couldn't undertake to
say what there is behind us, for I don't know which way we came."




VIII

UNDER THE GREAT OAKS


"Oh! well, Germain, we must be patient," said little Marie. "We are not
badly off on this little knoll. The rain doesn't come through the leaves
of these great oaks, for I can feel some old broken branches that are
dry enough to burn. You have flint and steel, Germain? You were smoking
your pipe just now."

"I had them. My steel was in the bag on the saddle with the game I was
carrying to my intended; but the cursed mare carried off everything,
even my cloak, which she will lose or tear on all the branches." "Oh!
no, Germain; the saddle and cloak and bag are all there on the ground,
by your feet. Grise broke the girths and threw everything off when she
left."

"Great God, that's so!" said the ploughman; "and if we can feel round
and find a little dead wood, we can succeed in drying and warming
ourselves."

"That's not hard to do," said little Marie; "the dead wood cracks under
your feet wherever you step; but give me the saddle first."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Make a bed for the little one: no, not like that; upside-down, so he
won't roll out; and it's still warm from the mare's back. Prop it up on
each side with those stones you see there."

"I don't see them! Your eyes are like a cat's, aren't they?"

"There! now that's done, Germain! Give me your cloak to wrap up his
little feet, and I'll put mine over his body. Look! isn't he as
comfortable there as he would be in his bed? and feel how warm he is!"

"Yes, indeed! you know how to take care of children, Marie!"

"That doesn't take much magic. Now look for your steel in your bag, and
I'll fix the wood."

"That wood will never light, it's too damp."

"You doubt everything, Germain! Why, can't you remember taking care of
sheep and making big fires in the fields when it was raining hard?"

"Yes, that's a knack that children who tend sheep have; but I've been an
ox-driver ever since I knew how to walk."

"That's how you came to be stronger in your arms than clever with your
hands. There's your fire all built; now you'll see if it won't burn!
Give me the fire and a few dry ferns. Good! now blow; you're not
weak-lunged, are you?"

"Not that I know of," said Germain, blowing like a forge-bellows. In a
moment, the flame shot up, cast a red light at first, and finally rose
in bluish flashes under the branches of the oaks, struggling with the
mist, and gradually drying the atmosphere for ten feet around.

"Now, I'll sit down beside the little one and see that no sparks fall on
him," said the girl. "You must throw on wood and keep the fire bright,
Germain! we shall not catch cold or the fever here, I promise you."

"Faith, you're a smart girl," said Germain, "and you can make a fire
like a little witch. I feel like a new man, and my courage is coming
back to me; for, with my legs wet to the knees, and the prospect of
staying here till daybreak in that condition, I was in a very bad humor
just now."

"And when one is in a bad humor, one never thinks of anything," rejoined
little Marie.

"And are you never in a bad humor, pray?"

"Oh! no, never! What's the use?"

"Why, it's of no use, that's certain; but how can you help it, when you
have things to annoy you? God knows that you have plenty of them, poor
child; for you haven't always been happy!"

"True, my poor mother and I have suffered. We have been unhappy, but we
never lost courage."

"I wouldn't lose courage for any work that ever was," said Germain; "but
poverty would grieve me, for I have never lacked anything. My wife made
me rich, and I am rich still; I shall be as long as I work at the farm:
that will be always, I hope; but every one has his own troubles! I have
suffered in another way."

"Yes, you lost your wife, and it was a great pity!"

"Wasn't it?"

"Oh! I cried bitterly for her, Germain, I tell you! for she was so kind!
But let's not talk about her any more or I shall cry again; all my
sorrows seem to be coming back to me to-day."

"Indeed, she loved you dearly, little Marie; she thought a deal of you
and your mother. What! you are crying! Come, come, my girl, I don't want
to cry, you know--"

"But you are crying, Germain! You are crying, too! Why should a man be
ashamed to cry for his wife? Cry on, don't mind me! I share that grief
with you!"

"You have a kind heart, Marie, and it does me good to weep with you. But
put your feet near the fire; your skirts are all damp, too, poor little
girl! Let me take your place by the child, and do you warm yourself
better than that."

"I'm warm enough," said Marie; "if you want to sit down, take a corner
of the cloak; I am very comfortable."

"To tell the truth, we're not badly off here," said Germain, seating
himself close beside her. "The only thing that troubles me now is
hunger. It must be nine o'clock, and I had such hard work walking in
those wretched roads, that I feel all fagged out. Aren't you hungry,
too, Marie?"

"I? Not at all. I'm not used to four meals a day as you are, and I have
been to bed without supper so many times, that once more doesn't worry
me much."

"Well, a wife like you is a great convenience; she doesn't cost much,"
said Germain, with a smile.

"I am not a wife," said Marie artlessly, not perceiving the turn the
ploughman's ideas were taking. "Are you dreaming?"

"Yes, I believe I am dreaming," was Germain's reply; "perhaps it's
hunger that makes my mind wander."

"What a gourmand you must be!" she rejoined, brightening up a little in
her turn; "well, if you can't live five or six hours without eating,
haven't you some game in your bag, and fire to cook it with?"

"The devil! that's a good idea! but what about the gift to my future
father-in-law?"

"You have six partridges and a hare! I don't believe you need all that
to satisfy your hunger, do you?"

"But if we undertake to cook it here, without a spit or fire-dogs, we
shall burn it to a cinder!"

"Oh! no," said little Marie; "I'll agree to cook it for you in the ashes
so it won't smell of smoke. Didn't you ever catch larks in the fields,
and haven't you cooked them between two stones? Ah! true! I forget that
you never tended sheep! Come, pluck that partridge! Not so hard! you'll
pull off the skin!"

"You might pluck another one to show me how!"

"What! do you propose to eat two? What an ogre! Well, there they are all
plucked, and now I'll cook them."

"You would make a perfect _cantiniГЁre_, little Marie; but unluckily you
haven't any canteen, and I shall be reduced to drink water from this
pool."

"You'd like some wine, wouldn't you? Perhaps you need coffee, too? you
imagine you're at the fair under the arbor! Call the landlord: liquor
for the cunning ploughman of Belair!"

"Ah! bad girl, you're laughing at me, are you? You wouldn't drink some
wine, I suppose, if you had some?"

"I? I drank with you to-night at La Rebec's for the second time in my
life; but if you'll be very good, I will give you a bottle almost full,
and of good wine too!"

"What, Marie, are you really a magician?"

"Weren't you foolish enough to order two bottles of wine at La Rebec's?
You drank one with the boy, and I took barely three drops out of the one
you put before me. But you paid for both of them without looking to
see."

"Well?"

"Well, I put the one you didn't drink in my basket, thinking that you or
the little one might be thirsty on the way; and here it is."

"You are the most thoughtful girl I ever saw. Well, well! the poor
child was crying when we left the inn, but that didn't prevent her from
thinking more of others than herself! Little Marie, the man who marries
you will be no fool."

"I hope not, for I shouldn't like a fool. Come, eat your partridges,
they are cooked to a turn; and, having no bread, you must be satisfied
with chestnuts."

"And where the devil did you get chestnuts?"

"That's wonderful, certainly! why, all along the road, I picked them
from the branches as we passed, and filled my pockets with them."

"Are they cooked, too?"

"What good would my wits do me if I hadn't put some chestnuts in the
fire as soon as it was lighted? We always do that in the fields."

"Now, little Marie, we will have supper together! I want to drink your
health and wish you a good husband--as good as you would wish yourself.
Tell me what you think about it!"

"I should have hard work, Germain, for I never yet gave it a thought."

"What! not at all? never?" said Germain, falling to with a ploughman's
appetite, but cutting off the best pieces to offer his companion, who
obstinately refused them, and contented herself with a few chestnuts.
"Tell me, little Marie," he continued, seeing that she did not propose
to reply, "haven't you ever thought about marrying? you're old enough,
though!"

"Perhaps I am," she said; "but I am too poor. You need at least a
hundred crowns to begin housekeeping, and I shall have to work five or
six years to save that much."

"Poor girl! I wish Pere Maurice would let me have a hundred crowns to
give you."

"Thank you very much, Germain. What do you suppose people would say
about me?"

"What could they say? everybody knows that I'm an old man and can't
marry you. So they wouldn't imagine that I--that you--"

"Look, ploughman! here's your son waking up," said little Marie.




IX

THE EVENING PRAYER


Petit-Pierre had sat up, and was looking all about with a thoughtful
expression.

"Ah! the rascal never does anything else when he hears anybody eating!"
said Germain; "a cannon-shot wouldn't wake him, but move your jaws in
his neighborhood, and he opens his eyes at once."

"You must have been like that at his age," said little Marie, with a
mischievous smile. "Well, my little Pierre, are you looking for the top
of your cradle? It's made of green leaves to-night, my child; but your
father's having his supper, all the same. Do you want to sup with him? I
haven't eaten your share; I thought you would probably claim it!"

"Marie, I insist on your eating," cried the ploughman; "I shan't eat any
more. I am a glutton, a boor; you go without on our account, and it's
not right; I'm ashamed of myself. It takes away my appetite, I tell
you; I won't let my son have any supper unless you take some."

"Let us alone," replied little Marie, "you haven't the key to our
appetites. Mine is closed to-day, but your Pierre's is wide open, like a
little wolf's. Just see how he goes at it! Oh! he'll be a sturdy
ploughman, too!"

In truth, Petit-Pierre soon showed whose son he was, and, although he
was hardly awake and did not understand where he was or how he came
there, he began to devour. Then, when his hunger was appeased, being
intensely excited as children generally are when their regular habits
are interrupted, he exhibited more quick wit, more curiosity, and more
shrewdness than usual. He made them tell him where he was, and when he
learned that he was in the middle of a forest, he was a little afraid.

"Are there naughty beasts in this forest?" he asked his father.

"No, there are none at all," was the reply. "Don't be afraid."

"Then you lied when you told me that the wolves would carry me off if I
went through the big forest with you?"

"Do you hear this reasoner?" said Germain in some embarrassment.

"He is right," replied little Marie, "you told him that; he has a good
memory, and he remembers it. But you must understand, my little Pierre,
that your father never lies. We passed the big forest while you were
asleep, and now we're in the little forest, where there aren't any
naughty beasts."

"Is the little forest very far from the big one?"

"Pretty far; and then the wolves never leave the big forest. Even if one
should come here, your father would kill him."

"And would you kill him, too, little Marie?"

"We would all kill him, for you would help us, my Pierre, wouldn't you?
You're not afraid, I know. You would hit him hard!"

"Yes, yes," said the child, proudly, assuming a heroic attitude, "we
would kill 'em."

"There's no one like you for talking to children," said Germain to
little Marie, "and for making them hear reason. To be sure, it isn't
long since you were a child yourself, and you remember what your mother
used to say to you. I believe that the younger one is, the better one
understands the young. I am very much afraid that a woman of thirty,
who doesn't know what it is to be a mother, will find it hard to learn
to prattle and reason with young brats."

"Why so, Germain? I don't know why you have such a bad idea of this
woman; you'll get over it!"

"To the devil with the woman!" said Germain. "I would like to go home
and never come back here. What do I need of a woman I don't know!"

"Little father," said the child, "why do you keep talking about your
wife to-day, when she is dead?"

"Alas! you haven't forgotten your poor dear mother, have you?"

"No, for I saw them put her in a pretty box of white wood, and my
grandma took me to her to kiss her and bid her good-by!--She was all
white and cold, and every night my aunt tells me to pray to the good
Lord to let her get warm with Him in heaven. Do you think she's there
now?"

"I hope so, my child; but you must keep on praying: that shows your
mother that you love her."

"I am going to say my prayer," replied the child; "I did not think of
saying it this evening. But I can't say it all by myself; I always
forget something. Little Marie must help me."

"Yes, Pierre, I will help you," said the girl. "Come, kneel here by my
side."

The child knelt on the girl's skirt, clasped his little hands, and began
to repeat his prayer with interest and fervently at first, for he knew
the beginning very well; then more slowly and hesitatingly, and at last
repeating word for word what Marie dictated to him, when he reached that
point in his petition beyond which he had never been able to learn, as
he always fell asleep just there every night. On this occasion, the
labor of paying attention and the monotony of his own tones produced
their customary effect, so that he pronounced the last syllables only
with great effort, and after they had been repeated three times; his
head grew heavy, and fell against Marie's breast: his hands relaxed,
separated, and fell open upon his knees. By the light of the camp-fire,
Germain looked at his little angel nodding against the girl's heart,
while she, holding him in her arms and warming his fair hair with her
sweet breath, abandoned herself to devout reverie and prayed mentally
for Catherine's soul.

Germain was deeply moved, and tried to think of something to say to
little Marie to express the esteem and gratitude she inspired in him,
but he could find nothing that would give voice to his thoughts. He
approached her to kiss his son, whom she was still holding against her
breast, and it was hard for him to remove his lips from Petit-Pierre's
brow.

"You kiss him too hard," said Marie, gently pushing the ploughman's head
away, "you will wake him. Let me put him to bed again, for he has gone
back to his dreams of paradise."

The child let her put him down, but as he stretched himself out on the
goat-skin of the saddle, he asked if he were on Grise. Then, opening his
great blue eyes, and gazing at the branches for a moment, he seemed to
be in a waking dream, or to be impressed by an idea that had come into
his mind during the day and took shape at the approach of sleep. "Little
father," he said, "if you're going to give me another mother, I want it
to be little Marie."

And, without awaiting a reply, he closed his eyes and went to sleep.




X

DESPITE THE COLD


Little Marie seemed to pay no further heed to the child's strange words
than to look upon them as a proof of friendship; she wrapped him up
carefully, stirred the fire, and, as the mist lying upon the neighboring
pool gave no sign of lifting, she advised Germain to lie down near the
fire and have a nap.

"I see that you're almost asleep now," she said, "for you don't say a
word, and you are staring at the fire just as your little one did just
now. Come, go to sleep, and I will watch over you and the child."

"You're the one to go to sleep," replied the ploughman, "and I will
watch both of you, for I never was less inclined to sleep; I have fifty
ideas in my head."

"Fifty, that's a good many," said the maiden, with some suggestion of
mockery in her tone; "there are so many people who would like to have
one!"

"Well, if I am not capable of having fifty, at all events I have one
that hasn't left me for an hour."

"And I'll tell you what it is, as well as the ones you had before it."

"Very good! tell me, if you can guess, Marie; tell me yourself, I shall
like that."

"An hour ago," she retorted, "you had the idea of eating, and now you
have the idea of sleeping."

"Marie, I am only an ox-driver at best, but really, you seem to take me
for an ox. You're a bad girl, and I see that you don't want to talk with
me. Go to sleep, that will be better than criticising a man who isn't in
good spirits."

"If you want to talk, let us talk," said the girl, half-reclining beside
the child and resting her head against the saddle. "You're determined to
worry, Germain, and in that you don't show much courage for a man. What
should I not say, if I didn't fight as hard as I can against my own
grief?"

"What, indeed; and that is just what I have in my head, my poor child!
You're going to live far away from your people in a wretched place, all
moors and bogs, where you will catch the fever in autumn, where there's
no profit in raising sheep for wool, which always vexes a shepherdess
who is interested in her business; and then you will be among strangers
who may not be kind to you, who won't understand what you are worth.
Upon my word, it pains me more than I can tell you, and I have a mind to
take you back to your mother, instead of going to Fourche."

"You speak very kindly, but without sense, my poor Germain; one
shouldn't be cowardly for his friends, and instead of pointing out the
dark side of my lot, you ought to show me the bright side, as you did
when we dined at La Rebec's."

"What would you have? that's the way things looked to me then, and they
look different now. You would do better to find a husband."

"That can't be, Germain, as I told you; and as it can't be, I don't
think about it."

"But suppose you could find one, after all? Perhaps, if you would tell
me what sort of a man you'd like him to be, I could succeed in thinking
up some one."

"To think up some one is not to find him. I don't think about it at all,
for it's of no use."

"You have never thought of finding a rich husband?"

"No, of course not, as I am poor as Job."

"But if he should be well off, you wouldn't be sorry to be well lodged,
well fed, well dressed, and to belong to a family of good people who
would allow you to help your mother along?"

"Oh! as to that, yes! to help my mother is my only wish."

"And if you should meet such a man, even if he wasn't in his first
youth, you wouldn't object very much?"

"Oh! excuse me, Germain. That's just the thing I am particular about. I
shouldn't like an old man."

"An old man, of course not; but a man of my age, for instance?"

"Your age is old for me, Germain; I should prefer Bastien so far as age
goes, though Bastien isn't such a good-looking man as you."

"You would prefer Bastien the swineherd?" said Germain bitterly. "A
fellow with eyes like the beasts he tends!"

"I would overlook his eyes for the sake of his eighteen years."

Germain had a horrible feeling of jealousy.--"Well, well," he said, "I
see that your mind is set on Bastien. It's a queer idea, all the same!"

"Yes, it would be a queer idea," replied little Marie, laughing
heartily, "and he would be a queer husband. You could make him believe
whatever you chose. For instance, I picked up a tomato in monsieur le
curГ©'s garden the other day; I told him it was a fine red apple, and he
bit into it like a glutton. If you had seen the wry face he made! _Mon
Dieu_, how ugly he was!"

"You don't love him then, as you laugh at him?"

"That wouldn't be any reason. But I don't love him: he's cruel to his
little sister, and he isn't clean."

"Very good! and you don't feel inclined toward anybody else?"

"What difference does it make to you, Germain?"

"No difference, it's just for something to talk about. I see, my girl,
that you have a sweetheart in your head already."

"No, Germain, you're mistaken, I haven't one yet; it may come later: but
as I shall not marry till I have saved up a little money, it will be my
lot to marry late and to marry an old man."

"Well, then, take an old man now."

"No indeed! when I am no longer young myself, it will be all the same to
me; now it would be different."

"I see, Marie, that you don't like me; that's very clear," said Germain
angrily, and without weighing his words.

Little Marie did not reply. Germain leaned over her: she was asleep; she
had fallen back, conquered, struck down, as it were, by drowsiness, like
children who fall asleep while they are prattling.

Germain was well pleased that she had not heard his last words; he
realized that they were unwise, and he turned his back upon her, trying
to change the current of his thoughts.

But it was of no avail, he could not sleep, nor could he think of
anything else than what he had just said. He walked around the fire
twenty times, walked away and returned; at last, feeling as excited as
if he had swallowed a mouthful of gunpowder, he leaned against the tree
that sheltered the two children and watched them sleeping.

[Illustration: Chapter IX

_The child knelt on the girl's skirt, clasped his little hands, and
began to repeat his prayer with interest and fervently at first, for he
knew the beginning very well_.]

"I don't know why I never noticed that little Marie is the prettiest
girl in the province!" he thought. "She hasn't a great deal of color,
but her little face is as fresh as a wild rose! What a pretty mouth and
what a cunning little nose!--She isn't tall for her age, but she's built
like a little quail and light as a lark!--I don't know why they think
so much at home of a tall, stout, red-faced woman. My wife was rather
thin and pale, and she suited me above all others.--This girl is
delicate, but she's perfectly well and as pretty to look at as a white
kid! And what a sweet, honest way she has! how well you can read her
kind heart in her eyes, even when they are closed in sleep!--As for wit,
she has more than my dear Catherine had, I must admit, and one would
never be bored with her.--She's light-hearted, she's virtuous, she's a
hard worker, she's affectionate, and she's amusing.--I don't see what
more one could ask.

"But what business have I to think of all that?" resumed Germain, trying
to look in another direction. "My father-in-law wouldn't listen to it,
and the whole family would treat me as a madman! Besides, she herself
wouldn't have me, poor child!--She thinks I am too old: she told me so.
She isn't interested; it doesn't worry her much to think of being in
want and misery, of wearing poor clothes and suffering with hunger two
or three months in the year, provided that she satisfies her heart some
day and can give herself to a husband who suits her--and she's right,
too! I would do the same in her place--and at this moment, if I could
follow my own will, instead of embarking on a marriage that I don't
like the idea of, I would choose a girl to my taste."

The more Germain strove to argue with himself and calm himself, the less
he succeeded. He walked twenty steps away, to lose himself in the mist;
and then he suddenly found himself on his knees beside the two sleeping
children. Once he even tried to kiss Petit-Pierre, who had one arm
around Marie's neck, and he went so far astray that Marie, feeling a
breath as hot as fire upon her lips, awoke and looked at him in terror,
understanding nothing of what was taking place within him.

"I didn't see you, my poor children!" said Germain, quickly drawing
back. "I came very near falling on you and hurting you."

Little Marie was innocent enough to believe him and went to sleep again.
Germain went to the other side of the fire, and vowed that he would not
stir until she was awake. He kept his word, but it was a hard task. He
thought that he should go mad.

At last, about midnight, the fog disappeared, and Germain could see the
stars shining through the trees. The moon also shook itself clear of the
vapors that shrouded it and began to sow diamonds on the damp moss. The
trunks of the oak-trees remained in majestic obscurity; but, a little
farther away, the white stems of the birches seemed like a row of
phantoms in their shrouds. The fire was reflected in the pool; and the
frogs, beginning to become accustomed to it, hazarded a few shrill,
timid notes; the knotty branches of the old trees, bristling with pale
lichens, crossed and recrossed, like great fleshless arms, over our
travellers' heads; it was a lovely spot, but so lonely and melancholy
that Germain, weary of suffering there, began to sing and to throw
stones into the water to charm away the ghastly _ennui_ of solitude. He
wanted also to wake little Marie; and when he saw her rise and look
about to see what the weather was like, he suggested that they should
resume their journey.

"In two hours," he said, "the approach of dawn will make the air so cold
that we couldn't stay here, notwithstanding our fire.--Now we can see
where we are going, and we shall be sure to find a house where they will
let us in, or at least a barn where we can pass the rest of the night
under cover."

Marie had no wish in the matter; and although she was still very sleepy,
she prepared to go with Germain.

He took his son in his arms without waking him, and insisted that Marie
should come and take a part of his cloak as she would not take her own
from around Petit-Pierre.

When he felt the girl so near him, Germain, who had succeeded in
diverting his thoughts and had brightened up a little for a moment,
began to lose his head again. Two or three times he walked abruptly away
from her and left her to walk by herself. Then, seeing that she had
difficulty in keeping up with him, he waited for her, drew her hastily
to his side, and held her so tight that she was amazed and angry too,
although she dared not say so.

As they had no idea in what direction they had started out, they did not
know in what direction they were going; so that they passed through the
whole forest once more, found themselves again on the edge of the
deserted moor, retraced their steps, and, after turning about and
walking a long while, they spied a light through the trees.

"Good! there's a house," said Germain, "and people already awake, as the
fire's lighted. Can it be very late?"

But it was not a house: it was their camp-fire which they had covered
when they left it, and which had rekindled in the breeze.

They had walked about for two hours, only to find themselves back at
their starting-point.




XI

IN THE OPEN AIR


"This time I give it up!" said Germain, stamping on the ground. "A spell
has been cast on us, that's sure, and we shall not get away from here
till daylight. This place must be bewitched."

"Well, well, let's not lose our tempers," said Marie, "but let us make
the best of it. We'll make a bigger fire, the child is so well wrapped
up that he runs no risk, and it won't kill us to pass a night
out-of-doors. Where did you hide the saddle, Germain? In the middle of
the holly-bushes, you great stupid! It's such a convenient place to go
and get it!"

"Here, take the child, while I pull his bed out of the brambles; I don't
want you to prick your fingers."

"It's all done, there's the bed, and a few pricks aren't sword-cuts,"
retorted the brave girl.

She proceeded to put little Pierre to bed once more; the boy was so
sound asleep by that time, that he knew nothing about their last
journey. Germain piled so much wood on the fire that it lighted up the
forest all around; but little Marie was at the end of her strength, and,
although she did not complain, her legs refused to hold her. She was
deathly pale, and her teeth chattered with cold and weakness. Germain
took her in his arms to warm her; and anxiety, compassion, an
irresistible outburst of tenderness taking possession of his heart,
imposed silence on his passions. His tongue was loosened, as if by a
miracle, and as all feeling of shame disappeared, he said to her:

"Marie, I like you, and I am very unfortunate in not making you like me.
If you would take me for your husband, neither father-in-law nor
relations nor neighbors nor advice could prevent me from giving myself
to you. I know you would make my children happy and teach them to
respect their mother's memory, and, as my conscience would be at rest, I
could satisfy my heart. I have always been fond of you, and now I am so
in love with you that if you should ask me to spend my life fulfilling
your thousand wishes, I would swear on the spot to do it. Pray, pray,
see how I love you and forget my age! Just think what a false idea it is
that people have that a man of thirty is old. Besides, I am only
twenty-eight! a girl is afraid of being criticised for taking a man ten
or twelve years older than she is, because it isn't the custom of the
province; but I have heard that in other places they don't think about
that; on the other hand, they prefer to give a young girl, for her
support, a sober-minded man and one whose courage has been put to the
test, rather than a young fellow who may go wrong, and turn out to be a
bad lot instead of the nice boy he is supposed to be. And then, too,
years don't always make age. That depends on a man's health and
strength. When a man is worn out by overwork and poverty, or by evil
living, he is old before he's twenty-five. While I--But you're not
listening to me, Marie."

"Yes, I am, Germain, I hear what you say," replied little Marie; "but I
am thinking of what my mother has always told me: that a woman of sixty
is much to be pitied when her husband is seventy or seventy-five and
can't work any longer to support her. He grows infirm, and she must take
care of him at an age when she herself is beginning to have great need
of care and rest. That is how people come to end their lives in the
gutter."

"Parents are right to say that, I agree, Marie," said Germain; "but,
after all, they would sacrifice the whole of youth, which is the best
part of life, to provide against what may happen at an age when one has
ceased to be good for anything, and when one is indifferent about ending
his life in one way or another. But I am in no danger of dying of hunger
in my old age. I am in a fair way to save up something, because, living
as I do with my wife's people, I work hard and spend nothing. Besides, I
will love you so well, you know, that that will prevent me from growing
old. They say that when a man's happy he retains his youth, and I feel
that I am younger than Bastien just from loving you; for he doesn't love
you, he's too stupid, too much of a child to understand how pretty and
good you are, and made to be courted. Come, Marie, don't hate me, I am
not a bad man; I made my Catherine happy; she said before God, on her
death-bed, that she had never been anything but contented with me, and
she advised me to marry again. It seems that her heart spoke to her
child to-night, just as he went to sleep. Didn't you hear what he said?
and how his little mouth trembled while his eyes were looking at
something in the air that we couldn't see! He saw his mother, you may be
sure, and she made him say that he wanted you to take her place."