"He is rather dirty after the night that we have passed," said she. "I
will brush his clothes, wash his pretty face, and comb his hair, and
when he looks neat and clean, you can present him to your new family."

"Who told you that I wish to go to Fourche?" answered Germain,
petulantly. "Perhaps I shall not go."

"But truly, Germain, it is your duty to go there. You will go there,"
replied the girl.

"You seem very anxious to have me married off, so that you may be quite
sure that I shall not trouble you again?"

"Germain, you must not think of that any more. It is an idea which came
to you in the night, because this unfortunate mishap took away your
spirits. But now you must come to your senses. I promise you to forget
everything that you said to me, and not to breathe it to a soul."

"Oh, say what you wish. It is not my custom to deny what I have spoken.
What I told you was true and honest, and I shall not blush for it before
anybody."

"Yes, but if your wife were to know that just before you came you were
thinking of another woman, it would prejudice her against you. So take
care how you speak now. Don't look at me before everybody with such a
rapt expression. Think of Father Maurice, who relies on your obedience,
and who would be enraged at me if I were to turn you from his will.
Good-by, Germain. I take Petit-Pierre in order to force you to go to
Fourche. He is a pledge which I keep on your behalf."

"So you want to go with her?" said the husbandman to his son, seeing
that the boy had clasped Marie's hands and was following her resolutely.

"Yes, father," answered the child, who had heard the conversation and
understood after his own fashion the words spoken so unguardedly before
him. "I am going away with my dearest little Marie. You shall come to
find me when you have done marrying, but I wish Marie to be my little
mother."

"You see how much he wishes it," said Germain to the girl. "Listen to
me, Petit-Pierre," he added. "I wish her to be your mother and to stay
with you always. It is she who does not wish to. Try to make her grant
you what she has denied me."

"Don't be afraid, father, I shall make her say yes. Little Marie does
everything that I wish."

He walked away with the young girl. Germain stood alone, sadder and more
irresolute than ever.




XI -- The Belle of the Village

AND after all, when he had brushed the dust of travel from his clothes
and from his horse's harness, when he had mounted the gray, and when he
had learned the road, he felt that there was no retreat and that he must
forget that anxious night as though it had been a dangerous dream.

He found Father Leonard seated on a trim bench of spinach-green. The six
stone steps leading up to the door showed that the house had a cellar.
The walls of the garden and of the hemp-field were plastered with lime
and sand. It was a handsome house, and might almost have been mistaken
for the dwelling of a bourgeois.

Germain's future father-in-law came forward to meet him, and having
plied him, for five minutes, with questions concerning his entire
family, he added that conventional phrase with which one passer-by
addresses another concerning the object of his journey: "So you are
taking a little trip in this part of the country?"

"I have come to see you," replied the husbandman, "to give you this
little present of game with my father's compliments, and to tell you
from him that you ought to know with what intentions I come to your
house."

"Oh, ho!" said Father Leonard, laughing and tapping his capacious
stomach, "I see, I understand, I am with you, and," he added with a
wink, "you will not be the only one to pay your court, young man. There
are three already in the house dancing attendance like you. I never turn
anybody away, and I should find it hard to say yes or no to any of them,
for they are all good matches. Yet, on account of Father Maurice and for
the sake of the rich fields you till, I hope that it may be you. But my
daughter is of age and mistress of her own affairs. She will do as
she likes. Go in and introduce yourself. I hope that you will draw the
prize."

"I beg your pardon," answered Germain, amazed to find himself an extra
when he had counted on being alone in the field. "I was not aware that
your daughter was supplied already with suitors, and I did not come to
quarrel over her."

"If you supposed that because you were slow in coming, my daughter would
be left unprovided for, you were greatly mistaken, my son," replied
Father Leonard with unshaken good humor. "Catherine has the wherewithal
to attract suitors, and her only difficulty lies in choosing. But come
in; don't lose heart. The woman is worth, a struggle."

And pushing in Germain by the shoulders with boisterous gaiety, he
called to his daughter as they entered the house:

"So, Catherine, here is another!"

This cordial but unmannerly method of introduction to the widow, in
the presence of her other devotees, completed Germain's distress and
embarrassment. He felt the awkwardness of his position, and stood for a
few moments without daring to look upon the beauty and her court.

The Widow GuГ©rin had a good figure and did not lack freshness, but her
expression and her dress displeased Germain the instant he saw her.
She had a bold, self-satisfied look, and her cap, edged with three lace
flounces, her silk apron, and her fichu of fine black lace were little
in accord with the staid and sober widow he had pictured to himself.

Her elaborate dress and forward manners inclined Germain to judge the
widow old and ugly, although she was certainly not either. He thought
that such finery and playful manners might well suit little Marie's
years and wit, but that the widow's fun was labored and over bold, and
that she wore her fine clothes in bad taste.

The three suitors were seated at a table loaded with wines and meats
which were spread out for their use throughout the Sunday morning; for
Father Leonard liked to show off his wealth, and the widow was not sorry
to display her pretty china and keep a table like a rich lady. Germain,
simple and unsuspecting as he was, watched everything with a penetrating
glance, and for the first time in his life he kept on the defensive when
he drank. Father Leonard obliged him to sit down with his rivals, and
taking a chair opposite he treated him with great politeness, and talked
to him rather than to the others.

The present of game, despite the breach Germain had made on his own
account, was still plenteous enough to produce its effect. The widow
did not look unaware of its presence, and the suitors cast disdainful
glances in its direction.

Germain felt ill at ease in this company, and did not eat heartily.
Father Leonard poked fun at him.

"You look very melancholy," said he, "and you are ill-using your glass.
You must not allow love to spoil your appetite, for a fasting lover can
make no such pretty speeches as he whose ideas are brightened with a
drop of wine."

Germain was mortified at being thought already in love, and the
artificial manner of the widow, who kept lowering her eyes with a
smile as a woman does who is sure of her calculations, made him long to
protest against his pretended surrender; but fearing to appear uncivil,
he smiled and held his peace.

He thought the widow's beaus, three bumpkins. They must have been rich
for her to admit of their pretensions. One was over forty, and fat as
Father Leonard; another had lost an eye, and drank like a sot. The
third was a young fellow, and nice-looking too; but he kept insisting on
displaying his wit, and would say things so silly that they were
painful to hear. Yet the widow laughed as though she admired all his
foolishness, and made small proof of her good taste thereby. At first
Germain thought her infatuated with him, but soon he perceived that
he himself was especially encouraged, and that they wished him to make
fresh advances. For this reason he felt an increasing stiffness and
severity which he took no pains to conceal.

The time came for mass, and they rose from table to go thither in
company. It was necessary to walk as far as Mers, a good half-league
away, and Germain was so tired that he longed to take a nap before they
went; but he was not in the habit of missing mass, and he started with
the others.

The roads were filled with people, and the widow marched proudly along,
escorted by her three suitors, taking an arm, first of one and then of
another, and carrying her head high with an air of importance. She was
eager to display the fourth to the eyes of the passers-by; but Germain
felt so ridiculous to be dragged along in the train of a petticoat
where all the world might see, that he kept at a respectable distance,
chatting with Father Leonard, and succeeded in occupying his attention
so well that they did not look at all as if they belonged to the party.




XII -- The Master

WHEN they reached the village, the widow halted to allow them to catch
up. She was bent upon making her entry with all her train; but Germain,
denying her this pleasure, deserted Father Leonard, and after conversing
with several acquaintances, he entered the church by another door. The
widow was vexed.

When mass was over, she made her appearance in triumph on the lawn,
where dancing was going on, and she began her dance with her three
lovers in turn. Germain watched her and saw that she danced well, but
with affectation.

"So, you don't ask my daughter?" said Leonard, tapping him on the
shoulder. "You are too easily frightened."

"I have not danced since I lost my wife," answered the husbandman.

"But now that you are looking for another, mourning 's over in heart as
well as in clothes."

"That 's no reason, Father Leonard. Besides, I am too old and I don't
care for dancing."

"Listen," said Father Leonard, drawing him toward a retired corner,
"when you entered my house you were vexed to see the place already
besieged, and I see that you are very proud. But that is not reasonable,
my boy. My daughter is used to a great deal of attention, particularly
since she left off her mourning two years ago, and it is not her place
to lead you on."

"Has your daughter been thinking of marrying for two years already
without making her choice?" asked Germain.

"She does n't wish to hurry, and she is right. Although she has lively
manners, and although you may not think that she reflects a great deal,
she is a woman of excellent common sense, and knows very well what she
is about."

"It does not appear to me so," said Germain ingenuously, "for she has
three suitors in her train, and if she knew her own mind, there are two
of them, at least, whom she would find superfluous and request to stay
at home."

"Why, Germain, you don't understand at all. She does n't wish the old
man, nor the blind man, nor the young man, I am quite certain; yet if
she were to turn them off, people would think that she wished to remain
a widow, and nobody else would come."

"Oh, I see. These three are used for a guide-post."

"As you like. What is the harm if they are satisfied?"

"Every man to his taste," said Germain.

"I see that yours is different. Now supposing that you are chosen, then
they would leave the coast clear."

"Yes, supposing! and meanwhile how much time should I have to whistle?"

"That depends on your persuasive tongue, I suppose. Until now, my
daughter has always thought that she would pass the best part of her
life while she was being courted, and she is in no hurry to become the
servant of one man when she can order so many others about. So she will
please herself as long as the game amuses her; but if you please her
more than the game, the game will cease. Only you must not lose courage.
Come back every Sunday, dance with her, let her know that you are
amongst her followers, and if she finds you more agreeable and better
bred than the others, some fine day she will tell you so, no doubt."

"Excuse me, Father Leonard. Your daughter has the right to do as she
pleases, and it is not my business to blame her. If I were in her place,
I should do differently. I should be more frank, and should not waste
the time of men who have, doubtless, something better to do than dancing
attendance on a woman who makes fun of them. Still, if that is what
amuses her and makes her happy, it is no affair of mine. Only there is
one thing I must tell you which is a little embarrassing, since you have
mistaken my intentions from the start, for you are so sure of what is
not so, that you have given me no chance to explain. You must know,
then, that I did not come here to ask for your daughter in marriage, but
merely to buy a pair of oxen which you are going to take to market next
week, and which my father-in-law thinks will suit him."

"I understand, Germain," answered Leonard very calmly; "you changed your
plans when you saw my daughter with her admirers. It is as you please.
It seems that what attracts some people repels others, and you
are perfectly welcome to withdraw, for you have not declared your
intentions. If you wish seriously to buy my cattle, come and see them in
the pasture, and whether we make a bargain or not, you will come back to
dinner with us before you return."

"I don't wish to trouble you," answered Germain. "Perhaps you have
something to do here. I myself am tired of watching the dancing and
standing idle. I will go to see your cattle, and I will soon join you at
your house."

Then Germain made his escape, and walked away toward the meadows where
Leonard had pointed out to him some of his cattle. It was true that
Father Maurice intended to buy, and Germain thought that if he were
to bring home a fine pair of oxen at a reasonable price, he might more
easily receive a pardon for wilfully relinquishing the purpose of his
journey. He walked rapidly, and soon found himself at some distance from
Ormeaux. Then of a sudden, he felt a desire to kiss his son and to see
little Marie once again, although he had lost all hope and even had
chased away the thought that he might some day owe his happiness to her.
Everything that he had heard and seen: this woman, flirtatious and vain;
this father, at once shrewd and short-sighted, encouraging his daughter
in habits of pride and untruth; this city luxury, which seemed to him a
transgression against the dignity of country manners; this time wasted
in foolish, empty words; this home so different from his own; and above
all, that deep uneasiness which comes to a laborer of the fields when
he leaves his accustomed toil: all the trouble and annoyance of the past
few hours made Germain long to be with his child and with his little
neighbor. Even had he not been in love, he would have sought her to
divert his mind and raise his spirits to their wonted level.

But he looked in vain over the neighboring meadows. He saw neither
little Marie nor little Pierre, and yet it was the hour when shepherds
are in the fields. There was a large flock in a pasture. He asked of
a young boy who tended them whether the sheep belonged to the farm of
Ormeaux.

"Yes," said the child.

"Are you the shepherd? Do boys tend the flocks of the farm, amongst
you?"

"No, I am taking care of them to-day, because the shepherdess went away.
She was ill."

"But have you not a new shepherdess, who came this morning?"

"Yes, surely; but she, too, has gone already."

"What! gone? Did she not have a child with her?"

"Yes, a little boy who cried. They both went away after they had been
here two hours."

"Went away! Where?"

"Where they came from, I suppose. I did n't ask them."

"But why did they go away?" asked Germain, growing more and more uneasy.

"How the deuce do I know?"

"Did they not agree about wages? Yet that must have been settled
before."

"I can tell you nothing about it I saw them come and go, nothing more."

Germain walked toward the farm and questioned the farmer. Nobody could
give him an explanation; but after speaking with the farmer, he felt
sure that the girl had gone without saying a word, and had taken the
weeping child with her.

"Can they have been ill-treating my son?" cried Germain.

"It was your son, then? How did he happen to be with the little girl?
Where do you come from, and what is your name?"

Germain, seeing that after the fashion of the country they were
answering him with questions, stamped his foot impatiently, and asked to
speak with the master.

The master was away. Usually, he did not spend the whole day when he
came to the farm. He was on horseback, and he had ridden off to one of
his other farms.

"But, honestly," said Germain, growing very anxious, "can't you tell me
why this girl left?"

The farmer and his wife exchanged an odd smile. Then the former answered
that he knew nothing, and that it was no business of his. All that
Germain could learn was that both girl and child had started off toward
Fourche. He rushed back to Fourche. The widow and her lovers were still
away; so was Father Leonard. The maid told him that a girl and a child
had come to ask for him, but that as she did not know them, she did not
wish to let them in, and had advised them to go to Mers.

"And why did you refuse to let them in?" said Germain, angrily. "People
are very suspicious in this country, where nobody opens the door to a
neighbor."

"But you see," answered the maid, "in a house as rich as this, I
must keep my eyes open. When the master is away, I am responsible for
everything, and I cannot open the door to the first person that comes
along."

"It is a bad custom," said Germain, "and I had rather be poor than
to live in constant fear like that. Good-by to you, young woman, and
good-by to your vile country."

He made inquiries at the neighboring house. The shepherdess and child
had been seen. As the boy had left Belair suddenly, carelessly dressed,
with his blouse torn, and his little lambskin over his shoulders, and
as little Marie was necessarily poorly clad at all times, they had been
taken for beggars. People had offered them bread. The girl had accepted
a crust for the child, who was hungry, then she had walked away with him
very quickly, and had entered the forest.

Germain thought a minute, then he asked whether the farmer of Ormeaux
had not been at Fourche.

"Yes," they answered, "he passed on horseback a few seconds after the
girl."

"Was he chasing her?"

"Oh, so you understand?" answered the village publican, with a laugh.
"Certain it is that he is the devil of a fellow for running after girls.
But I don't believe that he caught her; though, after all, if he had
seen her--"

"That is enough, thank you!" And he flew rather than ran to Leonard's
stable. Throwing the saddle on the gray's back, he leaped upon it, and
set off at full gallop toward the wood of Chanteloube.

His heart beat hard with fear and anger; the sweat poured down his
forehead; he spurred the mare till the blood came, though the gray
needed no pressing when she felt herself on the road to her stable.




XIII -- The Old Woman

GERMAIN came soon to the spot where he had passed the night on the
border of the pool. The fire was smoking still. An old woman was
gathering the remnants of the wood little Marie had piled there. Germain
stopped to question her. She was deaf and mistook his inquiries.

"Yes, my son," said she, "this is the Devil's Pool. It is an evil spot,
and you must not approach it without throwing in three stones with your
left hand, while you cross yourself with the right. That drives away the
spirits. Otherwise trouble comes to those who go around it."

"I am not asking about that," said Germain, moving nearer her, and
screaming at the top of his lungs. "Have you seen a girl and a child
walking through the wood?"

"Yes," said the old woman, "a little child was drowned there."

Germain shook from head to foot; but happily the hag added:

"That happened a long time ago. In memory of the accident they raised
a handsome cross there. But one stormy night, the bad spirits threw it
into the water. You can still see one end of it. If anybody were unlucky
enough to pass the night here, he could never find his way out before
daylight. He must walk and walk, and though he went two hundred leagues
into the forest, he must always return to the same place."

The peasant's imagination was aroused in spite of himself, and the
thought of the evils that must come in order that the old woman's
assertions might be vindicated, took so firm a hold of his mind that he
felt chilled through and through. Hopeless of obtaining more news, he
remounted, and traversed the woods afresh, calling Pierre with all his
might, whistling, cracking his whip, and snapping the branches that the
whole forest might reГ«cho with the noise of his coming; then he
listened for an answering voice, but he heard no sound save the cowbells
scattered through the glades, and the wild cries of the swine as they
fought over the acorns.

At length Germain heard behind him the noise of a horse following in
his traces, and a man of middle age, dark, sturdy, and dressed after the
city fashion, called to him to stop. Germain had never seen the farmer
of Ormeaux, but his instinctive rage told him at once that this was
the man. He turned, and eyeing him from head to foot, waited for him to
speak.

"Have not you seen a young girl of fifteen or sixteen go by with a small
boy?" asked the farmer, with an assumed air of indifference, although he
was evidently ill at ease.

"What do you want of her?" answered Germain, taking no pains to conceal
his anger.

"I might tell you that that is none of your business, my friend. But
as I have no reasons for secrecy, I shall tell you that she is a
shepherdess whom I engaged for a year, before I knew her. When I saw
her, she looked too young and frail to work on the farm. I thanked her,
but I wished to pay the expenses of her short journey, and while my back
was turned, she went off in a huff. She was in such a hurry that she
forgot even some of her belongings and her purse, which has certainly
not much in it, probably but a few pennies; but since I was going in
this direction, I hoped to meet her, and give her back the things which
she left behind, as well as what I owe her."

Germain had too honest a heart not to pause at hearing a story which,
however unlikely, was not impossible. He fastened his penetrating gaze
on the farmer, who submitted to the examination with a plentiful supply
of impudence or of good faith.

"I wish to get at the bottom of this matter," said Germain; "and,"
continued he, suppressing his indignation, "the girl lives in my
village. I know her. She can't be far away. Let 's ride on together; we
shall find her, no doubt."

"You are right," said the farmer; "let's move on; but if we do not find
her before we reach the end of this road, I shall give up, for I must
turn off toward Ardentes."

"Oh, oh!" thought the peasant, "I shall not part with you, even if I
have to follow you around the 'Devil's Pool for twenty-four hours."

"Stop," said Germain suddenly, fixing his eyes on a clump of broom which
waved in a peculiar manner. "Halloa! halloa! Petit Pierre, is that you,
my child?"

The boy recognized his father's voice, and came out from the broom
leaping like a young deer; but when he saw Germain in company with the
farmer, he stopped dismayed, and stood irresolute. "Come, my Pierre,
come. It is I," cried the husbandman, as he leaped from his horse and
ran toward his boy to take him in his arms; "and where is little Marie?"

"She is hiding there, because she is afraid of that dreadful black man,
and so am I."

"You need n't be afraid. I am here. Marie, Marie. It is I."

Marie crept toward them, but the moment she saw Germain with the farmer
close behind, she sprang forward, and throwing herself into his arms,
clung to him as a daughter to her father.

"Oh, my brave Germain!" she cried, "you will defend me. I am not afraid
when you are near."

Germain shuddered. He looked at Marie. She was pale; her clothes were
torn by the thorns which had scratched her as she passed, rushing toward
the brake like a stag chased by the hunters. But neither shame nor
despair were in her face.

"Your master wishes to speak to you," said he, his eyes fixed on her
features.

"My master!" she exclaimed fiercely; "that man is no master of mine, and
he never shall be. You, Germain, you are my master. I want you to take
me home with you. I will be your servant for nothing."

The farmer advanced, feigning impatience. "Little girl," said he, "you
left something behind at the farm, which I am bringing back to you."

"No, you are not, sir," answered little Marie. "I did n't forget
anything, and I have nothing to ask of you."

"Listen a moment," returned the farmer. "It 's I who have something to
tell you. Come with me. Don't be afraid. It's only a word or two."

"You may say them aloud. I have no secrets with you."

"At any rate, do take your money."

"My money? You owe me nothing, thank God!"

"I suspected as much," said Germain under his breath, "but I don't care,
Marie. Listen to what he has to say to you, for--I am curious to know.
You can tell me afterward. Go up to his horse. I shall not lose sight of
you."

Marie took three steps toward the farmer. He bent over the pommel of his
saddle, and lowering his voice he said:

"Little girl, here is a bright golden louis for you. Don't say anything
about it; do you hear? I shall say that I found you too frail to work
on my farm. There will be no more talk about that. I shall be passing by
your house one of these days; and if you have not said anything, I will
give you something more; and then if you are more sensible, you have
only to speak. I will take you home with me, or I will come at dusk and
talk with you in the meadows. What present would you like me to bring
you?"

"Here, sir, is the present I have for you," answered little Marie,
aloud, as she threw the golden louis in his face with all her might. "I
thank you heartily, and I beg that if you come anywhere near our house,
you will be good enough to let me know. All the boys in the neighborhood
will go out to welcome you, because, where I live, we are very fond of
gentlemen who try to make love to poor girls. You shall see. They will
be on the lookout for you."

"You lie with your dirty tongue," cried the farmer, raising his stick
with a dangerous air. "You wish to make people believe what is not so,
but you shall never get a penny out of me. We know what kind of a girl
you are."

Marie drew back, frightened, and Germain sprang to the bridle of the
farmer's horse and shook it violently.

"I understand now," said he; "it is easy to see what is going on. Get
down, my man, get down; I want to talk to you."

The farmer was not eager to take up the quarrel. Anxious to escape,
he set spurs to his horse and tried to loosen the peasant's grasp by
striking down his hands with a cane; but Germain dodged the blow, and
seizing hold of his antagonist's leg, he unseated him and flung him
to the earth. The farmer regained his feet, but although he defended
himself vigorously, he was knocked down once more. Germain held him to
the ground. Then he said:

"Poor coward, I could thrash you if I wished. But I don't want to do
you an injury, and, besides, no amount of punishment would help your
conscience--but you shall not stir from this spot until you beg the
girl's pardon, on your knees."

The farmer understood this sort of thing, and wished to take it all as a
joke. He made believe that his offense was not serious, since it lay
in words alone, and protested that he was perfectly willing to ask her
pardon, provided he might kiss the girl afterward. Finally, he proposed
that they go and drink a pint of wine at the nearest tavern, and so part
good friends.

"You are disgusting!" answered Germain, rubbing his victim's head in the
dirt, "and I never wish to see your nasty face again. So blush, if you
are able, and when you come to our village, you had better slink along
Sneak's Alley."*

He picked up the farmer's holly-stick, broke it over his knee to show
the strength of his wrists, and threw away the pieces with disgust Then
giving one hand to his son and the other to little Marie, he walked
away, still trembling with anger.

* This is the road, which, diverging from the principal street at the
entrance of villages, makes a circuit about them.. Persons who are in
dread off receiving some well deserved insult, are supposed to take this
route to escape attention.




XIV -- The Return to the Farm

AT the end of fifteen minutes they had left the heath behind them.
They trotted along the highroad, and the gray whinnied at each familiar
object. Petit-Pierre told his father as much as he could understand of
what had passed.

"When we reached the farm," said he, "that man came to speak to my Marie
in the fold where we had gone to see the pretty sheep. I had climbed
into the manger to play, and that man did not see me. Then he said good
morning to Marie, and he kissed her."

"You allowed him to kiss you, Marie?" said Germain, trembling with
anger.

"I thought it was a civility, a custom of the place to new-comers, just
as at your farm the grandmother kisses the young girls who enter her
service to show that she adopts them and will be a mother to them."

"And next," went on little Pierre, who was proud to have an adventure to
tell of, "_that man_ told you something wicked, which you have told me
never to repeat and not even remember; so I forgot it right away. Still,
if father wishes, I will tell him what it was--"

"No, Pierre, I don't wish to hear, and I don't wish you ever to think of
it again."

"Then I will forget it all over again," replied the child. "Next, _that
man_ seemed to be growing angry because Marie told him that she was
going away. He told her he would give her whatever she wanted,--a
hundred francs! And my Marie grew angry too. Then he came toward her as
if he wished to hurt her. I was afraid, and I ran to Marie and cried.
Then _that man_ said: 'What 's that? Where did that child come from? Put
it out,' and he raised his cane to beat me. But my Marie prevented him,
and she spoke to him this way: 'We will talk later, sir; now I must take
this child back to Fourche, and then I shall return.' And as soon as
he had left the fold, my Marie spoke to me this way: 'We must run, my
Pierre; we must get away as quickly as we can, for this is a wicked
man and he is trying to do us harm.' Then when we had gone back of the
farm-houses, we crossed a little meadow, and we went to Fourche to find
you. But you were not there, and they would n't let us wait. And then
_that man_, riding his black horse, came behind us, and we ran on as
fast as we could and hid in the woods. And then he followed us, and
when we heard him coming, we hid again. And then, when he had passed,
we began to run toward home, and then you came and found us, and that is
how it all happened. I have n't forgotten anything, have I, my Marie?"

"No, my Pierre, that is the whole truth. Now, Germain, you must be my
witness, and tell everybody in the village that if I did not stay there
it was not from want of courage and industry."

"And, Marie, I want to ask of you whether a man of twenty-eight is too
old when there is a woman to be defended and an insult to be revenged.
I should like to know whether Bastien or any other pretty boy, ten years
better off than I, would not have been knocked to pieces by _that man_,
as Petit-Pierre says. What do you think?"

"I think, Germain, that you have done me a great service, and that I
shall be grateful all my life."

"Is that all?"

"Little father," said the child, "I forgot to ask little Marie what I
promised. I have not had time yet, but I will speak to her at home, and I
will speak to my grandmother too."

The child's promise set Germain to thinking He must explain his conduct
to his family and give his objections to the widow Guam, and all the
while conceal the true reasons which had made him so judicious and so
decided. When a man is proud and happy, it seems an easy task to thrust
his happiness upon others, but to be repulsed on one side and blamed on
the other is not a very pleasant position.

Fortunately, Petit-Pierre was fast asleep when they reached the farm,
and Germain put him to bed undisturbed. Then he began upon all sorts of
explanations, Father Maurice, seated on a three-legged stool before the
door, listened with gravity; and, although he was ill-content with
the result of the journey, when Germain told him about the widow's
systematic coquetry, and demanded of his father-in-law whether he had
the time to go and pay his court fifty-two Sundays in the year at the
risk of being dismissed in the end, the old man nodded his head in
assent and answered: "You were not wrong, Germain; that could never be."
And then, when Germain described how he had been obliged to bring back
little Marie, with the utmost haste, in order to protect her from the
insults or perhaps from the violence of a wicked master, Father Maurice
nodded approvingly again and said: "You were not wrong, Germain; that
was right."

When Germain had told his story, and had set forth all his reasons, the
old farmer and his wife heaved deep, simultaneous sighs of resignation,
and looked at each other. Then the head of the house rose and said:
"God's will be done. Love can't be made to order."

"Come to supper, Germain," said his mother-in-law. "It is unfortunate
that this did not come to a better end, but, after all, it seems that
God did not wish it. We must look elsewhere."

"Yes," added the old man, "as my wife says, we must look elsewhere."

There was no more noise at the house, and on the morrow, when
Petit-Pierre rose with the larks at dawn, he was no longer excited
by the extraordinary events of the preceding days. Like other little
peasants of his age, he became indifferent, forgot everything that had
been running in his head, and thought only of playing with his brothers,
and of pretending to drive the horses and oxen like a man. Germain
plunged into his work, and tried to forget, too; but he became so
absent-minded and so sad that everybody noticed it. He never spoke to
little Marie, he never even looked at her, and yet had anybody asked him
in what meadow she was, or by what road she had passed, there was not a
moment in the day when he could not have answered if he would. He dared
not ask his family to take her in at the farm during the winter, and yet
he knew well how she must suffer from want. But she did not suffer; and
Mother Guillette could not understand how her little store of wood never
grew less, and how her shed was full in the morning, although she
had left it almost empty at night It was the same with the wheat and
potatoes. Somebody entered by the garret window, and emptied a sack on
the floor without awaking a soul or leaving a trace of his coming. The
widow was at once uneasy and delighted. She made her daughter promise to
tell nobody, and said that were people to know of the miracle performed
at her house they would take her for a witch. She felt confident that
the devil had a share in it, but she was in no hurry to pick a quarrel
with him by calling down the priest's exorcisms on the house. It would
be time enough, she said, when Satan should come to demand her soul in
return for his gifts.

Little Marie understood the truth better, but she dared not speak to
Germain, for fear of seeing him return to his dreams of marriage, and,
before him, she pretended to perceive nothing.




XV -- Mother Maurice

ONE day, Mother Maurice was alone in the orchard with Germain, and spoke
to him kindly:

"My poor son, I believe you are not well. You don't eat as well as
usual; you never laugh; you talk less and less. Perhaps one of us, or
all of us, have hurt your feelings, without knowing and without wishing
it."

"No, my mother," answered Germain, "you have always been as kind to
me as the mother who brought me into the world, and I should be very
ungrateful if I were to complain of you or your husband, or of anybody
in the household."

"Then, my child, it is the sorrow for your wife's death which comes back
to you. Instead of growing lighter with time, your grief becomes worse,
and as your father has said very wisely, it is absolutely necessary for
you to marry again."

"Yes, my mother, that is my opinion, but the women whom you advised
me to ask don't suit me. Whenever I see them, instead of forgetting my
Catherine, I think of her all the more."

"Apparently that 's because we have n't been able to understand your
taste. You must help us by telling us the truth. There must be a woman
somewhere who is made for you, for God does n't make anybody without
placing his happiness in somebody else. So if you know where to find
this woman whom you need, take her, and be she pretty or ugly, young or
old, rich or poor, we have made up our minds, my husband and I, to give
our consent, for we are tired of seeing you so sad, and we can never be
happy while you are sorrowful."

"My mother, you are as kind as the kind Lord, and so is my father,"
answered Germain; "but your compassion brings small help to my troubles,
for the girl I love does n't care for me."

"She is too young, then? It's foolish for you to love a young girl."

"Yes, mother dear, I have been foolish enough to love a young girl, and
it 's my fault. I do my best to stop thinking of it, but, working or
sleeping, at mass or in bed, with my children or with you, I can think
of nothing else."

"Then it 's like a fate cast over you, Germain. There 's but one remedy,
and it is that this girl must change her mind and listen to you. It's my
duty to look into this, and see whether it 's practicable. Tell me where
she lives, and what 's her name."

"Oh, my dear mother, I dare not," said Germain, "because you will make
fun of me."

"I shall not make fun of you, Germain, because you are in trouble, and I
don't wish to make it harder for you. Is it Fanchette?"

"No, mother, of course not."

"Or Rosette?"

"No."

"Tell me, then, for I shall never finish if I must name every girl in
the country-side."

Germain bowed his head, and could not bring himself to answer.

"Very good," said Mother Maurice, "I shall let you alone for to-day;
to-morrow, perhaps, you will be more confidential with me, or possibly
your sister-in-law will question you more cleverly." And she picked up
her basket to go and spread her linen on the bushes.

Germain acted like children who make up their minds when they see that
they are no longer attracting attention. He followed his mother, and at
length, trembling, he named Marie of Guillette.

Great was the surprise of Mother Maurice. Marie was the last person she
would have dreamed of. But she had the delicacy not to cry out, and made
her comments to herself. Then seeing that her silence hurt Germain, she
stretched out her basket toward him and said:

"Is there any reason for not helping me at my work. Carry this load, and
come and talk with me. Have you reflected well, Germain? Are you fully
decided?"

"Alas, dear mother, you must n't speak in that way. I should be decided
if I had a chance of success, but as I could never be heard, I have only
made up my mind to cure myself, if I can."

"And if you can't."

"There is an end to everything, Mother Maurice: when the horse is laden
too heavily, he falls, and when the cow has nothing to eat, she dies."

"Do you mean to say that you will die, if you do not succeed. God grant
not, Germain. I don't like to hear a man like you talk of those things;
for what he says, he thinks. You are very brave, and weakness
is dangerous for strong men. Take heart; I can't conceive that a
poverty-stricken girl, whom you have honored so much as to ask her to
marry you, will refuse you."

"Yet it 's the truth: she does refuse me."

"And what reasons does she give you?"

"That you have always been kind to her, and that her family owes a great
deal to yours, and that she does n't wish to displease you by turning me
away from a rich marriage."

"If she says that, she proves her good sense, and shows what an honest
girl she is. But, Germain, she does n't cure you; for of course she
tells you that she loves you and would marry you if we were willing?"

"That's the worst part of all. She says that her heart can never be
mine."

"If she says what she does n't think in order to keep you at a safer
distance, the child deserves our love, and we should pass over her youth
on account of her great good sense."

"Yes," said Germain, struck by a hope he had never held before; "that
would be very wise and right of her! But if she is so sensible, I am
sure it is because I displease her."

"Germain," said Mother Maurice, "you must promise me not to worry for a
whole week. Keep from tormenting yourself, eat, sleep, and be as gay as
you used to be. For my part, I 'll speak to my husband, and if I gain
his consent, you shall know the girl's real feelings toward you."

Germain promised, and the week passed without a single word in private
from Father Maurice, who seemed to suspect nothing. The husbandman did
his best to look calm, but he grew ever paler and more troubled.




XVI -- Little Marie

AT length, on Sunday morning, when mass was over, his mother-in-law
asked Germain what encouragement he had had from his sweetheart since
the conversation in the orchard.

"Why, none at all," answered he; "I have n't spoken to her."

"How can you expect to win her if you don't speak to her?"

"I have spoken to her but once," replied Germain. "That was when we were
together at Fourche, and since then I have n't said a single word. Her
refusal gave me so much pain that I had rather not hear her begin again
to tell me that she does n't love me."

"But, my son, you must speak to her now; your father gives his approval.
So make up your mind. I tell you to do it, and, if need be, I shall
order you to do it, for you can't rest in this uncertainty."

Germain obeyed. He reached Mother Guillette's house, hanging his
head with a hopeless air. Little Marie sat alone before the hearth so
thoughtful that she did not hear Germain's step. When she saw him before
her, she started from her chair in surprise and grew very red.

"Little Marie," said he, sitting down near her, "I come to trouble you
and to give you pain. I know it very well, but the man and his wife at
home [it was thus after the peasant fashion that he designated the heads
of the house] wish me to speak to you, and beg you to marry me. You
don't care for me. I am prepared for it."

"Germain," answered little Marie, "are you sure that you love me?"

"It pains you, I know, but it is n't my fault. If you could change your
mind, I should be so very happy, and certain it is that I don't deserve
it. Look at me, Marie; am I very terrible?"

"No, Germain," she answered, with a smile, "you are better looking than
I."

"Don't make fun of me; look at me charitably; as yet, I have never lost
a single hair nor a single tooth. My eyes tell you plainly how much I
love you. Look straight into my eyes. It is written there, and every
girl knows how to read that writing."

Marie looked into Germain's eyes with playful boldness; then of a sudden
she turned away her head and trembled.

"Good God," exclaimed Germain, "I make you afraid; you look at me as
though I were the farmer of Ormeaux. Don't be afraid of me, please
don't; that hurts me too much. I shall not say any bad words to you, I
shall not kiss you if you will not have me, and when you wish me to go
away, you have only to show me the door. Must I go in order to stop your
trembling?"

Marie held out her hand toward the husbandman, but without turning her
head, which was bent on the fireplace, and without saying a word.

"I understand," said Germain. "You pity me, for you are kind; you are
sorry to make me unhappy; but you cant love me."

"Why do you say these things to me, Germain?" answered little Marie,
after a pause. "Do you wish to make me cry?"

"Poor little girl, you have a kind heart, I know; but you don't love me,
and you are hiding your face for fear of letting me see your dislike and
your repugnance. And I? I dare not even clasp your hand! In the forest,
when my boy was asleep and you were sleeping too, I almost kissed you
very gently. But I would have died of shame rather than ask it of you,
and that night I suffered as a man burning over a slow fire. Since
that time I have dreamed of you every night. Ah! how I have kissed you,
Marie! Yet during all that time you have slept without a dream. And now,
do you know what I think? I think that were you to turn and look at me
with the eyes I have for you, and were you to move your face close to
mine, I believe I should fall dead for joy. And you, you think that if
such a thing were to happen, you would die of anger and shame!"

Germain spoke as in a dream, not hearing the words he said. Little Marie
was trembling all the time, but he was shaking yet more and did not
notice it. Of a sudden, she turned. Her eyes were filled with tears, and
she looked at him reproachfully. The poor husbandman thought that this
was the last blow, and without waiting for his sentence, he rose to go,
but the girl stopped him, and throwing both her arms about him, she hid
her face in his breast.

"Oh, Germain," she sobbed, "did n't you feel that I loved you?"

Then Germain had gone mad, if his son, who came galloping into the
cottage on a stick, with his little sister on the crupper, scourging the
imaginary steed with a willow branch, had not brought him to his senses.
He lifted the boy and placed him in the girl's arms.

"See," said he, "by loving me, you have made more than one person
happy."





APPENDIX

I -- A Country Wedding

HERE ends the history of Germain's marriage as he told it to me himself,
good husbandman that he is. I ask your forgiveness, kind reader, that I
know not how to translate it better; for it is a real translation that
is needed by this old-fashioned and artless language of the peasants
of the country "that I sing," as they used to say. These people speak
French that is too true for us, and since Rabelais and Montaigne, the
advance of the language has lost for us many of its old riches. Thus
it is with every advance, and we must make the best of it. Yet it is
a pleasure still to hear those picturesque idioms used in the old
districts in the center of France; all the more because it is the
genuine expression of the laughing, quiet, and delightfully talkative
character of the people who make use of it. Touraine has preserved
a certain precious number of patriarchal phrases. But Touraine was
civilized greatly during the Renaissance, and since its decline she
is filled with fine houses and highroads, with foreigners and traffic.
Berry remained as she was, and I think that after Brittany and a few
provinces in the far south of France, it is the best preserved district
to be found at the present day. Some of the costumes are so strange and
so curious that I hope to amuse you a few minutes more, kind reader,
if you will allow me to describe to you in detail a country
wedding--Germain's, for example--at which I had the pleasure of
assisting several years ago.

For, alas! everything passes. During my life alone, more change has
taken place in the ideas and in the customs of my village than had
been seen in the centuries before the Revolution. Already half the
ceremonies, Celtic, Pagan, or of the Middle Ages, that in my childhood I
have seen in their full vigor, have disappeared. In a year or two more,
perhaps, the railroads will lay their level tracks across our deep
valleys, and will carry away, with the swiftness of lightning, all our
old traditions and our wonderful legends.

It was in winter about the carnival season, the time of year when, in
our country, it is fitting and proper to have weddings. In summer the
time can hardly be spared, and the work of the farm cannot suffer three
days' delay, not to speak of the additional days impaired to a greater
or to a less degree by the moral and physical drunkenness which
follows a gala-day. I was seated beneath the great mantelpiece of the
old-fashioned kitchen fireplace when shots of pistols, barking of dogs,
and the piercing notes of the bagpipe told me that the bridal pair were
approaching. Very soon Father and Mother Maurice, Germain, and little
Marie, followed by Jacques and his wife, the closer relatives, and the
godfathers and godmothers of the bride and groom, all made their entry
into the yard.

Little Marie had not yet received her wedding-gifts,--favors, as they
call them,--and was dressed in the best of her simple clothes, a dress
of dark, heavy cloth, a white fichu with great spots of brilliant color,
an apron of carnation,--an Indian red much in vogue at the time, but
despised nowadays,--a cap of very white muslin after that pattern,
happily still preserved, which calls to mind the head-dress of Anne
Boleyn and of Agnes Sorrel. She was fresh and laughing, but not at
all vain, though she had good reason to be so. Beside her was Germain,
serious and tender, like young Jacob greeting Rebecca at the wells of
Laban. Another girl would have assumed an important air and struck an
attitude of triumph, for in every rank it is something to be married
for a fair face alone. Yet the girl's eyes were moist and shone with
tenderness. It was plain that she was deep in love and had no time to
think of the opinions of others. Her little air of determination was not
absent, but everything about her denoted frankness and good-will. There
was nothing impertinent in her success, nothing selfish in her sense
of power. Never have I seen so lovely a bride, when she answered with
frankness her young friends who asked if she were happy:

"Surely I have nothing to complain of the good Lord."

Father Maurice was spokesman. He came forward to pay his compliments,
and give the customary invitations. First he fastened to the mantelpiece
a branch of laurel decked out with ribbons; this is known as the
_writ_--that is to say, the letter of announcement. Next he gave
to every guest a tiny cross made of a bit of blue ribbon sewn to a
transverse bit of pink ribbon--pink for the bride, blue for the groom.
The guests of both sexes were expected to keep this badge to adorn their
caps or their button-holes on the wedding-day. This is the letter of
invitation, the admission ticket.