Chapter 3

“Then why did you not take him, Germain? He would have been very little trouble. He is so good when you please him.”

“He would probably have been in the way in the place where I am going. At least Father Maurice thought so. On the other hand, I should have thought it well to see how they received him. For no one could help being kind to such a nice child. But at home they said that I must not begin by showing off all the cares of the household. I don’t know why I speak of this to you, little Marie; you can’t understand.”

“Oh, yes, I do; I know that you are going away to marry; my mother spoke to me about it, and told me not to mention it to a soul, either at home or at my destination, and you need not be afraid; I shall not breathe a word about it.”

“You are very right. For the deed isn’t done yet. Perhaps I shall not suit this woman.”

“I hope you will, Germain; why should you not suit her?”

“Who knows? I have three children, and that is a heavy burden for a woman who is not their mother.”

“Very true. But are not your children like other children?”

“Do you think so?”

“They are lovely as little angels, and so well brought up that you can’t find better children.”

“There’s Sylvain. He is none too obedient.”

“He is so very little. He can’t help being naughty. But he is very bright.”

“He is bright it is true, and very brave. He is not afraid of cows nor bulls, and if he were given his own way, he would be climbing on horseback already with his elder brother.”

“Had I been in your place, I would have taken the eldest boy along. Surely people would have liked you at once for having such a pretty child.”

“Yes, if a woman is fond of children. But if she is not.”

“Are there women who don’t love children?”

“Not many, I think, but still there are some, and that is what troubles me.”

“You don’t know this woman at all, then?”

“No more than you, and I fear that I shall not know her better after I have seen her. I am not suspicious. When people say nice things to me, I believe them, but more than once I have had good reason to repent, for words are not deeds.”

“They say that she is a very good woman.”

“Who says so? Father Maurice?”

“Yes, your father-in-law.”

“That is all very well. But he knows her no more than I.”

“Well, you will soon see. Pay close attention, and let us hope that you will not be deceived.”

“I have it. Little Marie, I should be very much obliged if you would come into the house for a minute before you go straight on to Ormeaux. You are quick-witted; you have always shown that you are not stupid, and nothing escapes your notice. Should you see anything to rouse your suspicions, you must warn me of it very quietly.”

“Oh! no, Germain, I will not do that; I should be too much afraid of making a mistake; and, besides, if a word lightly spoken were to turn you against this marriage, your family would bear me a grudge, and I have plenty of troubles now without bringing any more on my poor dear mother.”

As they were talking thus, the gray pricked up her ears and shied; then returning on her steps, she approached the bushes, where she began to recognize something which had frightened her at first. Germain cast his eye over the thicket, and in a ditch, beneath the branches of a scrub-oak, still thick and green, he saw something which he took for a lamb.

“The little creature is strayed or dead, for it does not move. Perhaps some one is looking for it; we must see.”

“It is not an animal,” cried little Marie; “it is a sleeping child. It is your Petit-Pierre.”

“Heavens!” exclaimed Germain; “see the little scamp asleep so far away from home, and in a ditch where a snake might bite him!”

He lifted up the child, who smiled as he opened his eyes and threw his arms about his father’s neck, saying: “Dear little father, you are going to take me with you.”

“Oh, yes; always the same tune. What were you doing there, you naughty Pierre?”

“I was waiting for my little father to go by. I was watching the road, and I watched so hard that I fell asleep.”

“And if I had passed by without seeing you, you would have been out of doors all night, and a wolf would have eaten you up.”

“Oh, I knew very well that you would see me,” answered Petit-Pierre, confidently.

“Well, kiss me now, bid me good-by, and run back quickly to the house, unless you wish them to have supper without you.”

“Are you not going to take me, then?” cried the little boy, beginning to rub his eyes to show that he was thinking of tears.

“You know very well that grandpapa and grandmama do not wish it,” said Germain, fortifying himself behind the authority of his elders, like a man who distrusts his own.

The child would not listen. He began to cry with all his might, saying that as long as his father was taking little Marie, he might just as well take him too. They replied that they must pass through great woods filled with wicked beasts who eat up little children. The gray would not carry three people; she had said so when they were starting, and in the country where they were going there was no bed and no supper for little boys. All these good reasons could not persuade Petit-Pierre; he threw himself on the ground, and rolled about, shrieking that his little father did not love him any more, and that if he did not take him he would never go back to the house at all, day or night.

Germain had a father’s heart, as soft and weak as a woman’s. His wife’s death, and the care which he had been obliged to bestow all alone on his little ones, as well as the thought that these poor motherless children needed a great deal of love, combined to make him thus. So such a sharp struggle went on within him, all the more because he was ashamed of his weakness and tried to hide his confusion from little Marie, that the sweat started out on his forehead, and his eyes grew red and almost ready to weep. At last he tried to get angry, but as he turned toward little Marie in order to let her witness his strength of mind, he saw that the good girls face was wet with tears; all his courage forsook him and he could not keep back his own, scold and threaten as he would.

“Truly your heart is too hard,” said little Marie at last, “and for myself I know that I never could refuse a child who felt so badly. Come, Germain, let’s take him. Your mare is well used to carrying two people and a child, for you know that your brother-in-law and his wife, who is much heavier than I, go to market every Saturday with their boy on this good beast’s back. Take him on the horse in front of you. Besides, I should rather walk on foot all alone than give this little boy so much pain.”

“Never mind,” answered Germain, who was dying to allow himself to give way. “The gray is strong, and could carry two more if there were room on her back. But what can we do with this child on the way? He will be cold and hungry, and who will take care of him to-night and to-morrow, put him to bed, wash him, and dress him? I don’t dare give this trouble to a woman I don’t know, who will think, doubtless, that I am exceedingly free and easy with her to begin with.”

“Trust me, Germain, you will know her at once by the kindness or the impatience that she shows. If she does not care to receive your Pierre, I will take charge of him myself. I will go to her house and dress him, and I will take him to the fields with me to-morrow. I will amuse him all day long, and take good care that he does not want for anything.”

“He will tire you, my poor girl, and give you trouble. A whole day is a long time.”

“Not at all; it will give me pleasure; he will keep me company, and that will make me less sad the first day that I must pass in a new place. I shall fancy that I am still at home.”

Seeing that little Marie was pleading for her, the child seized upon her skirt and held it so tight that they must have hurt him in order to tear it away. When he perceived that his father was weakening, he took Marie’s hand in both his tiny sunburned fists and kissed her, leaping for joy, and pulling her toward the mare with the burning impatience children feel in their desires.

“Come along,” said the young girl, lifting him in her arms; “let us try to quiet his poor little heart. It is fluttering like a little bird; and if you feel the cold when night comes on, tell me, my Pierre, and I will wrap you in my cape. Kiss your little father, and beg his pardon for being naughty. Tell him that you will never, never be so again. Do you hear?”

“Yes, yes, provided that I always do just as he wishes. Isn’t it so?” said Germain, drying the little boy’s eyes with his handkerchief. “Marie, you are spoiling the little rascal. But really and truly, you are too good, little Marie. I don’t know why you did not come to us as shepherdess last Saint John’s Day. You would have taken care of my children, and I should much rather pay a good price for their sake than try to find a woman who will think, perhaps, she is doing me a great kindness if she does not detest them.”

“You must not look on the dark side of things,” answered little Marie, holding the horse’s bridle while Germain placed his son in front of the big pack-saddle covered with goatskin. “If your wife does not care for children, take me into your service next year, and you may be sure I shall amuse them so well that they will not notice anything.”

VI

On the Heath

“Dear me,” said Germain, after they had gone a few steps farther, “what will they think at home when they miss the little man? The family will be worried, and will be looking everywhere for him.”

“You can tell the man who is mending the road up there that you are taking him along, and ask him to speak to your people.”

“That is very true, Marie; you don’t forget anything. It never occurred to me that Jeannie must be there.”

“He lives close to the farm, and he will not fail to do your errand.”

When they had taken this precaution, Germain put the mare to a trot, and Petit-Pierre was so overjoyed that for a time he forgot that he had gone without his dinner; but the motion of the horse gave him a hollow feeling in his stomach, and at the end of a league, he began to gape and grow pale, and confessed that he was dying of hunger.

“This is the way it begins,” exclaimed Germain. “I was quite sure that we should not go far without this young gentleman crying with hunger or thirst.”

“I am thirsty, too!” said Petit-Pierre.

“Very well, then, let’s go to Mother Rebec’s tavern at Corlay, the sign of ‘The Dawn’--a pretty sign, but a poor lodging. You will take something to drink, too, will you not, Marie?”

“No, no; I don’t want anything. I will hold the mare while you go in with the child.”

“But I remember, my good girl, that this morning you gave the bread from your own breakfast to my Pierre. You have had nothing to eat. You would not take dinner with us at home; you would do nothing but cry.”

“Oh, I was not hungry; I felt too sad, and I give you my word that even now I have no desire to eat.”

“You must oblige yourself to eat, little girl, else you will fall sick. We have a long way to go, and it will not do to arrive half-starved and beg for bread before we say how d’ ye do. I shall set you a good example myself, although I am not very hungry: and I am sure that I can, for, after all, I did not eat any dinner. I saw you crying, you and your mother, and it made me feel sad. Come along. I am going to tie the gray at the door. Get down; I wish you to.”

All three entered the inn, and in less than fifteen minutes the fat, lame hostess was able to place before them a nice-looking omelette, some brown bread, and a bottle of light wine.

Peasants do not eat quickly, and little Pierre had such a good appetite that a whole hour passed before Germain could think of starting out again. At first little Marie ate in order to be obliging; then little by little she grew hungry. For, at sixteen, a girl cannot fast for long, and country air is dictatorial.

The kind words with which Germain knew how to comfort her and strengthen her courage, produced their effect. She tried hard to persuade herself that seven months would soon be over, and to think of the pleasure in store for her when she saw once more her family and her hamlet; for Father Maurice and Germain had both promised to take her into their service. But just as she began to cheer up and play with little Pierre, Germain was so unfortunate as to point out to her from the inn window the lovely view of the valley which can all be seen from this height, and which looks so happy and green and fertile.

Marie looked and asked if the houses of Belair were in sight.

“No doubt,” said Germain, “and the farm, too, and even your house--see! that tiny gray spot not far from Godard’s big poplar, below the belfry.”

“Ah, I see it,” said the little girl; and then she began to cry.

“I ought not to have made you think of it,” said Germain. “I can do nothing but stupid things to-day. Come along, Marie; let’s start, and in an hour, when the moon rises, it will not be hot.”

They resumed their journey across the great heath, and for fear of tiring the young girl and the child by too rapid a trot, Germain did not make the gray go very fast. The sun had set when they left the road to enter the wood.

Germain knew the way as far as Magnier, but he thought it would be shorter to avoid the Chantaloube road and descend by Presles and La Sépulture, a route he was not in the habit of taking on his way to the fair. He lost his way, and wasted more time before he reached the wood. Even then he did not enter it on the right side, although he did not perceive his mistake, so that he turned his back on Fourche, and took a direction higher up on the way to Ardente.

He was prevented still further from finding his way by a thick mist which rose as the night fell; one of those mists which come on autumn evenings when the whiteness of the moonlight renders them more undefined and more treacherous. The great pools of water scattered through the glades gave forth a vapor so dense that when the gray crossed them, their presence was known only by a splashing noise, and the difficulty with which she drew her feet from the mud.

At last they found a good straight road, and when they came to the end of it, and Germain tried to discover where he was, he saw that he was lost. For Father Maurice had told him, when he explained the way, that on leaving the wood he must descend a very steep hillside, cross a wide meadow, and ford the river twice. He had even warned him to cross this river carefully; for, early in the season, there had been great rains, and the water might still be higher than usual. Seeing neither hillside nor meadows, nor river, but a heath, level and white as a mantle of snow, Germain stopped, looked about for a house, and waited for a passer-by, but could find nothing to set him right. Then he retraced his steps and reentered the wood. But the mist thickened yet more, the moon was completely hidden, the roads were execrable, and the quagmires deep. Twice the gray almost fell. Her heavy load made her lose courage, and although she kept enough sagacity to avoid the tree-trunks, she could not prevent her riders from striking the great branches which overhung the road at the height of their heads and caused them great danger. In one of these collisions Germain lost his hat, and only recovered it after much difficulty. Petit-Pierre had fallen asleep, and, lying like a log in his father’s arms, hampered him so that he could no longer hold up nor direct the horse.

“I believe we are bewitched,” exclaimed Germain, stopping; “for the wood is not large enough to get lost in, if a man is not drunk, and here we have been turning round and round for two hours at least, without finding a way out. The gray has but one idea in her head, and that is to get home. It is she who is deceiving me. If we wish to go home, we have only to give her the bit. But when we are perhaps but two steps from our journey’s end, it would be foolish to give up and return such a long road; and yet I am at a loss what to do. I can’t see sky or earth, and I am afraid that the child will catch the fever if we remain in this cursed fog, or that he will be crushed beneath our weight if the horse falls forward.”

“We must not persist longer,” said little Marie. “Let’s dismount, Germain. Give me the child; I can carry him perfectly well, and I know better than you how to keep the cloak from falling open and leaving him exposed. You lead the mare by her bridle. Perhaps we shall see more clearly when we are nearer the ground.”

This precaution was of service only in saving them from a fall, for the fog hung low and seemed to stick to the damp earth.

Their advance was painfully slow, and they were soon so weary that they halted when they reached a dry spot beneath the great oaks.

Little Marie was in a violent sweat, but she uttered not a word of complaint, nor did she worry about anything. Thinking only of the child, she sat down on the sand and laid it upon her knees, while Germain explored the neighborhood, after having fastened the gray’s reins to the branch of a tree.

But the gray was very dissatisfied with the journey. She reared suddenly, broke the reins loose, burst her girths, and giving, by way of receipt, half a dozen kicks higher than her head, she started across the clearing, showing very plainly that she needed no one to show her the way home.

“Well, here we are afoot,” said Germain, after a vain attempt to catch the horse, “and it would do us no good now if we were on the good road, for we should have to ford the river on foot, and since these paths are filled with water, we may be sure that the meadow is wholly submerged. We don’t know the other routes. We must wait until this fog clears. It can’t last more than an hour or two; as soon as we can see clearly, we shall look about for a house, the first we come to near the edge of the wood. But for the present we can’t stir from here. There is a ditch and a pond over there. Heaven knows what is in front of us, and what is behind us is more than I can say now, for I have forgotten which way we came.”

VII

Underneath the Big Oaks

“Well, we must be patient, Germain,” said little Marie. “We are not badly off on this little hillock. The rain does not pierce the leaves of these big oaks, and we can light a fire, for I can feel old stumps which stir readily and are dry enough to burn. You have a light, Germain, have you not? You were smoking your pipe a few minutes ago.”

“I did have; my tinderbox was in my bag on the saddle with the game that I was bringing to my bride that is to be, but that devilish mare has run away with everything, even with my cloak, which she will lose and tear to bits on every branch she comes to.”

“No, no, Germain; saddle and cloak and bag are all there on the ground at your feet. The gray burst her girths, and threw off everything as she ran away.”

“That’s true, thank God,” exclaimed the laborer; “if we can grope about and find a little dead wood, we shall be able to dry ourselves and get warm.”

“That’s not difficult,” said little Marie; “dead wood always cracks when you step on it. But will you give me the saddle?”

“What do you want of it?”

“To make a bed for the child. No, not that way. Upside down. He will not roll off into the hollow, and it is still very warm from the horse’s back. Prop it up all around with the stones that you see there.”

“I can’t see a stone; you must have cat’s eyes.”

“There, it is all done, Germain. Hand me your cloak so that you can wrap up his little feet, and throw my cape over his body. Just see if he is not as comfortable as though he were in his own bed, and feel how warm he is.”

“You certainly know how to take care of children, Marie.”

“I need not be a witch to do that; now get your tinderbox from your bag, and I will arrange the wood.”

“This wood will never catch fire; it is too damp.”

“You are always doubting, Germain. Don’t you remember when you were a shepherd, and made big fires in the fields right in the midst of the rain?”

“Yes, that is a knack that belongs to children who take care of sheep; but I was made to drive the oxen as soon as I could walk.”

“That is what has made your arms strong and your hands quick! Here, the fire is built; you shall see whether it does not burn. Give me the light and a handful of dry ferns. That is all right. Now blow; you are not consumptive, are you?”

“Not that I know of,” said Germain, blowing like a smith’s bellows. In an instant the flame leaped up, and throwing out a red glare, it rose finally in pale blue jets under the oak branches, battling with the fog, and gradually drying the atmosphere for ten feet around.

“Now I am going to sit by the child, so that the sparks may not fall on him,” said the young girl. “Pile on the wood and stir up the fire, Germain; we shall not catch cold nor fever here, I will answer for it.”

“Upon my word, you are a clever girl,” said Germain; “and you know how to make a fire like a little fairy of the night. I feel quite revived, and my courage has come back again; for with my legs drenched up to the knees, and with the thought of staying this way till daylight, I was in a very bad temper just now.”

“And when people are in a bad temper they don’t think of anything,” answered little Marie.

“And are you never bad-tempered?”

“No, never; what is the good of it?”

“Oh, of course, there is no good; but how can you help it when you have troubles? Yet Heaven knows that you have not lacked them, my little girl; for you have not always been happy.”

“It is true that my mother and I have suffered. We have had sorrows, but we have never lost heart.”

“I should never lose heart, no matter how hard my work was,” said Germain, “but poverty would make me very sad; for I have never wanted for anything. My wife made me rich, and I am rich still; I shall be so as long as I work on the farm; and that will be always, I hope. But everybody must suffer his share! I have suffered in another way.”

“Yes; you have lost your wife. That is very sad.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Oh! Germain, I have wept for her many a time. She was so very kind! But don’t let us talk about her longer, for I shall burst out crying. All my troubles are ready to come back to me to-day.”

“It is true, she loved you dearly, little Marie. She used to make a great deal of you and your mother. Are you crying? Come, my girl, I don’t want to cry....”

“But you are crying, Germain! You are crying as hard as I. Why should a man be ashamed to weep for his wife? Don’t let me trouble you. That sorrow is mine as well as yours.”

“You have a kind heart, Marie, and it does me good to weep with you. Put your feet nearer the fire; your skirts are all soaked, too, poor little girl. I am going to take your place by the boy. You move nearer the fire.”

“I am hot enough,” said Marie; “and if you wish to sit down, take a corner of the cloak. I am perfectly comfortable.”

“The truth is that it is not so bad here,” said Germain, as he sat down beside her. “Only I feel very hungry again. It is almost nine o’clock, and I have had such hard work in walking over these vile roads that I feel quite tired out. Are you not hungry, too, little Marie?”

“I?--not at all. I am not accustomed like you to four meals a day, and I have been to bed so often without my supper that once more does not trouble me.”

“A woman like you is very convenient; she costs nothing,” said Germain, smiling.

“I am not a woman,” exclaimed Marie, naïvely, without perceiving the direction the husbandman’s ideas had taken. “Are you dreaming?”

“Yes, I believe I must be dreaming,” answered Germain. “Perhaps hunger is making my mind wander.”

“How greedy you are,” answered she, brightening in her turn. “Well, if you can’t live five or six hours without eating, have you not game in your bag and fire to cook it?”