Chapter 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wasn't it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well?"

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

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

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

"And where the devil did you get chestnuts?"

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

"Are they cooked, too?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IX

THE EVENING PRAYER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

X

DESPITE THE COLD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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