"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
SГ©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, naГЇvely, 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.