Chapter 4

“By Jove, that’s a good idea! But how about the present to my future father-in-law?”

“You have six partridges and a hare! I suppose you do not need all of them to satisfy your appetite.”

“But how can we cook them without a spit or andirons. They will be burned to a cinder!”

“Not at all,” said little Marie; “I warrant that I can cook them for you under the cinders without a taste of smoke. Have you never caught larks in the fields, and cooked them between two stones? Oh! that is true--I keep forgetting that you have never been a shepherd. Come, pluck the partridge. Not so hard! You will tear the skin.”

“You might be plucking the other to show me how!”

“Then you wish to eat two? What an ogre you are! They are all plucked. I am going to cook them.”

“You would make a perfect little sutler’s girl, Marie, but unhappily you have no canteen, and I shall have to drink water from this pool!”

“You would like some wine, would you not? Possibly you might prefer coffee. You imagine yourself under the trees at the fair. Call out the host. Some wine for the good husbandman of Belair!”

“You little witch, you are making fun of me! Would not you drink some wine if you had it?”

“I? At Mother Rebec’s, with you to-night, I drank some for the second time in my life. But if you are very good, I shall give you a bottle almost full, and excellent too.”

“What? Marie, I verily believe you are a witch!”

“Were you not foolish enough to ask for two bottles of wine at the inn? You and your boy drank one, and the other you set before me. I hardly drank three drops, yet you paid for both without looking.”

“What then?”

“Why, I put the full one in my basket, because I thought that you or your child would be thirsty on the journey. And here it is.”

“You are the most thoughtful girl I have ever met. Although the poor child was crying when we left the inn, that did not prevent her from thinking of others more than of herself. Little Marie, the man who marries you will be no fool.”

“I hope not, for I am not fond of fools. Come, eat up your partridges; they are done to a turn; and for want of bread, you must be satisfied with chestnuts.”

“Where the deuce did you find chestnuts, too?”

“It is extraordinary! All along the road I picked them off the branches as we went along, and filled my pockets.”

“And are they cooked, too?”

“Where would my wits have been had I not had sense enough to put the chestnuts in the fire as soon as it was lighted? That is the way we always do in the fields.”

“So we are going to take supper together, little Marie. I want to drink your health and wish you a good husband, just the sort of a man that will suit you. Tell me what kind you want.”

“I should find that very difficult, Germain, for I have not thought about it yet.”

“What, not at all? Never?” said Germain, as he began to eat with a laborer’s appetite, yet stopping to cut off the more tender morsels for his companion, who persisted in refusing them and contented herself with a few chestnuts.

“Tell me, little Marie,” he went on, seeing that she had no intention of answering him, “have you never thought of marrying? Yet you are old enough?”

“Perhaps,” she said, “but I am too poor. I need at least a hundred crowns to marry, and I must work five or six years to scrape them together.”

“Poor girl, I wish Father Maurice were willing to give me a hundred crowns to make you a present of.”

“Thank you kindly, Germain. What do you suppose people would say of me?”

“What do you wish them to say of you? They know very well that I am too old to marry you. They would never believe that I--that you--”

“Look, Germain, your child is waking up,” said little Marie.

VIII

The Evening Prayer

Petit-Pierre had raised his head and was looking about him with a thoughtful air.

“Oh, that is the way he always does, whenever he hears the sound of eating,” said Germain. “The explosion of a cannon would not rouse him, but if you work your jaws near him, he opens his eyes at once.”

“You must have been just like him at his age,” said little Marie, with a sly smile. “See! my Petit-Pierre, you are looking for your canopy. To-night it is made all of green, my child; but your father eats his supper none the less. Do you wish to sup with him? I have not eaten your share; I thought that you might claim it.”

“Marie, I wish you to eat,” cried the husbandman; “I shall not touch another morsel. I am a greedy glutton. You are depriving yourself for our sake. It is not fair. I am ashamed. It takes away all my appetite. I will not have my son eat his supper unless you take some too.”

“Leave us alone,” said little Marie; “you have not the key to our appetites. Mine is tight shut to-day, but your Pierre’s is as wide open as a little wolf’s. Just see how he seizes his food. He will be a strong workman too, some day!”

In truth, Petit-Pierre showed very soon whose son he was, and though scarcely awake and wholly at a loss to know where he was and how he had come there, he began to eat ravenously. As soon as his hunger was appeased, feeling excited as children do who break loose from their wonted habits, he had more wit, more curiosity, and more good sense than usual. He made them explain to him where he was, and when he found that he was in the midst of a forest, he grew a little frightened.

“Are there wicked beasts in this forest?” he demanded of his father.

“No, none at all. Don’t be afraid.”

“Then you told a story when you said that if I went with you into the great forest, the wolves would carry me off.”

“Just see this logician,” said Germain, embarrassed.

“He is right,” replied little Marie. “That is what you told him. He has a good memory, and has not forgotten. But, little Pierre, you must learn that your father never tells a story. We passed through the big forest whilst you were sleeping, and now we are in the small forest where there are no wicked beasts.”

“Is the little forest very far away from the big one?”

“Far enough; besides, the wolves never go out of the big forest. And then, if some of them should come here, your father would kill them.”

“And you too, little Marie?”

“Yes, we, too, for you would help also, my Pierre. You are not frightened, are you? You would beat them soundly?”

“Yes, indeed, I would,” said the child, proudly, as he struck a heroic attitude; “we would kill them.”

“There is nobody like you for talking to children and for making them listen to reason,” said Germain to little Marie. “To be sure, it is not long ago since you were a small child yourself, and you have not forgotten what your mother used to say to you. I believe that the younger one is, the better one gets on with children. I am very much afraid that a woman of thirty who does not yet know what it is to be a mother, would find it hard to prattle to children and reason with them.”

“Why, Germain? I don’t know why you have such a bad idea of this woman; you will change your mind.”

“The devil take the woman!” exclaimed Germain. “I wish I were going away from her forever. What do I want of a wife whom I don’t know?”

“Little father,” said the child, “why is it that you speak so much of your wife to-day, since she is dead?”

“Then you have not forgotten your poor, dear mother?”

“No; for I saw her placed in a beautiful box of white wood, and my grandmother led me up to her to kiss her and say good-by. She was very white and very stiff, and every evening my aunt made me pray God that she might go to him in Heaven and be warm. Do you think that she is there now?”

“I hope so, my child; but you must always pray. It shows your mother that you love her.”

“I am going to say my prayers,” answered the boy. “I forgot them to-night. But I can’t say them all alone, for I always forget something. Little Marie must help me.”

“Yes, my Pierre, I will help you,” said the young girl. “Come and kneel down in my lap.”

The child knelt down on the girl’s skirt. He clasped his little hands and began to say his prayers, at first with great care and earnestness, for he knew the beginning very well, then slowly and with more hesitation, and finally repeating word by word after Marie, when he came to that place in his prayer where sleep overtook him so invariably that he had never been able to learn the end. This time again the effort of close attention and the monotony of his own accent produced their wonted effect. He pronounced the last syllables with great difficulty, and only after they were thrice repeated.

His head grew heavy and fell on Marie’s breast; his hands unclasped, divided, and fell open on his knees. By the light of the camp-fire, Germain watched his little darling hushed at the heart of the young girl, who, as she held him in her arms and warmed his fair hair with her sweet breath, had herself fallen into a holy reverie, and prayed in quiet for the soul of Catherine.

Germain was touched. He tried to express to little Marie the grateful esteem which he felt for her, but he could find no fitting words.

He approached her to kiss his son, whom she held close to her breast, and he could scarcely raise his lips from little Pierre’s brow.

“You kiss too hard,” said Marie, gently pushing away the husbandman’s head. “You will wake him. Let me put him back to bed, for the boy has left us already for dreams of paradise.”

The child allowed Marie to lay him down, but feeling the goatskin on the saddle, he asked if he were on the gray. Then opening his big blue eyes, and keeping them fixed on the branches for a minute, he seemed to be dreaming, wide-awake as he was, or to be struck with an idea which had slipped his mind during the daytime, and only assumed a distinct form at the approach of sleep.

“Little father,” said he, “if you wish to give me a new mother, I hope it will be little Marie.”

And without waiting for an answer, he closed his eyes and slept.

IX

Despite the Cold

Little Marie seemed to give no more heed to the child’s odd words than to regard them as a proof of friendship. She wrapped him up with care, stirred the fire, and as the fog resting on the neighboring pool gave no sign of lifting, she advised Germain to lie near the fire and take a nap.

“I see that you are sleepy already,” said she, “for you don’t say a word and you gaze into the fire, just as your little boy was doing.”

“It is you who must sleep,” answered the husbandman, “and I will take care of both of you, for I have never felt less sleepy than I do now. I have fifty things to think of.”

“Fifty is a great many,” said the little girl, with a mocking accent. “There are lots of people who would be delighted to have one.”

“Well, if I am too stupid to have fifty, I have one, at least, which has not left me for the past hour.”

“And I shall tell it to you as well as I told you those you thought of before.”

“Yes, do tell me if you know, Marie. Tell me yourself. I shall be glad to hear.”

“An hour ago,” she answered, “your idea was to eat--and now it is to sleep.”

“Marie, I am only an ox-driver, but, upon my word, you take me for an ox. You are very perverse, and it is easy to see that you do not care to talk to me, so go to sleep. That will be better than to pick flaws in a man who is out of sorts.”

“If you wish to talk, let’s talk,” said the girl, half reclining near the child and resting her head against the saddle. “You torment yourself, Germain, and you do not show much courage for a man. What wouldn’t I say if I didn’t do my best to fight my own troubles?”

“Yes, that’s very true, and that’s just what I am thinking of, my poor child. You are going to live, away from your friends, in a horrid country full of moors and fens, where you will catch the autumn fevers. Sheep do not pay well there, and this is always discouraging for a shepherdess if she means well. Then you will be surrounded by strangers who may not be kind to you and will not know how much you are worth. It makes me more sorry than I can tell you, and I have a great desire to take you home to your mother instead of going on to Fourche.”

“You talk very kindly, but there is no reason for your misgivings, my poor Germain. You ought not to lose heart on your friend’s account, and instead of showing me the dark side of my lot, you should show me the bright side, as you did after lunch at Rebec’s.”

“What can I do? That’s the way it appeared to me then, and now my ideas are changed. It is best for you to take a husband.”

“That cannot be, Germain, and as it is out of the question, I think no more about it.”

“Yet such a thing might happen. Perhaps if you told me what kind of a man you want, I might imagine somebody.”

“Imagining is not finding. For myself, I never imagine, for it does no good.”

“You are not looking for a rich man?”

“Certainly not, for I am as poor as Job.”

“But if he were comfortably off, you wouldn’t be sorry to have a good house, and good food, and good clothes, and to live with an honest family who would allow you to help your mother.”

“Oh, yes indeed! It is my own wish to help my mother.”

“And if this man were to turn up, you would not be too hard to please, even if he were not so very young.”

“Ah! There you must excuse me, Germain. That is just the point I insist on. I could never love an old man.”

“An old man, of course not; but a man of my age, for example!”

“Your age is too old for me, Germain. I should like Bastien’s age, though Bastien is not so good-looking as you.”

“Should you rather have Bastien, the swineherd?” said Germain, indignantly. “A fellow with eyes shaped like those of the pigs he drives!”

“I could excuse his eyes, because he is eighteen.”

Germain felt terribly jealous.

“Well,” said he, “it’s clear that you want Bastien, but, none the less, it’s a queer idea.”

“Yes, that would be a queer idea,” answered little Marie, bursting into shouts of laughter, “and he would make a queer husband. You could gull him to your heart’s content. For instance, the other day, I had picked up a tomato in the curate’s garden. I told him that it was a fine, red apple, and he bit into it like a glutton. If you had only seen what a face he made. Heavens! how ugly he was!”

“Then you don’t love him, since you are making fun of him.”

“That wouldn’t be a reason. But I don’t like him. He is unkind to his little sister, and he is dirty.”

“Don’t you care for anybody else?”

“How does that concern you, Germain?”

“Not at all, except that it gives me something to talk about. I see very well, little girl, that you have a sweetheart in your mind already.”

“No, Germain, you’re wrong. I have no sweetheart yet. Perhaps one may come later, but since I cannot marry until I have something laid by, I am destined to marry late in life and with an old man.”

“Then take an old man without delay.”

“No. When I am no longer young, I shall not care; for the present, it is different.”

“I see that I displease you, Marie; that’s clear enough,” said Germain, impatiently, and without stopping to weigh his words.

Little Marie did not answer. Germain bent over her. She was sleeping. She had fallen back, overcome, stricken down, as it were, by slumber, as children are who sleep before they cease to babble.

Germain was glad that she had not caught his last words. He felt that they were unwise, and he turned his back to distract his attention and change his thoughts.

It was all in vain. He could neither sleep nor think of anything except the words he had just spoken. He walked about the fire twenty times; he moved away; he came back. At last, feeling himself tremble as though he had swallowed gunpowder, he leaned against the tree which sheltered the two children, and watched them as they slept.

“I know not how it is,” thought he; “I have never noticed that little Marie is the prettiest girl in the countryside. She has not much color, but her little face is fresh as a wild rose. What a charming mouth she has, and how pretty her little nose is! She is not large for her age, but she is formed like a little quail and is as light as a bird. I cannot understand why they made so much fuss at home over a big, fat woman with a bright red face. My wife was rather slender and pale, and she pleased me more than any one else. This girl is very frail, but she is healthy, and she is pretty to watch as a white kid. And then she has such a gentle, frank expression. You can read her good heart in her eyes even though they are closed in sleep. As to wit, I must confess she has more than ever my dear Catherine had, and she would never become wearisome. She is gay, wise, industrious, loving, and she is amusing. I don’t know what more I could wish for....

“But what is the use of thinking of all this?” Germain went on, trying to look in another direction. “My father-in-law would not hear of it, and all the family would think me mad! Besides, she would not have me herself, poor child! She thinks me too old; she told me so. She is unselfish, and does not mind poverty and worry, wearing old clothes, and suffering from hunger for two or three months every year, so long as she can satisfy her heart some day and give herself to the man she loves. She is right. I should do the same in her place, and even now, if I had my own way, instead of marrying a wife whom I don’t care for, I would choose a girl after my own heart.”

The more Germain tried to compose himself by reasoning, the further he was from succeeding. He walked away a dozen steps, to lose himself in the fog; then, all of a sudden, he found himself on his knees beside the two sleeping children. Once he wished to kiss Petit-Pierre, who had one arm about Marie’s neck, and made such a mistake that Marie felt a breath, hot as fire, cross her lips, and awaking, looked about her with a bewildered expression, totally ignorant of all that was passing within his mind.

“I didn’t see you, my poor children,” said Germain, retreating rapidly. “I almost stumbled over you and hurt you.”

Little Marie was so innocent that she believed him, and fell asleep again. Germain walked to the opposite side of the fire, and swore to God that he would not stir until she had waked. He kept his word, but not without a struggle. He thought that he would go mad.

At length, toward midnight, the fog lifted, and Germain could see the stars shining through the trees. The moon freed herself from the mist which had hidden her, and began to sow her diamonds over the damp moss. The trunks of the oak-trees remained in impressive darkness, but beyond, the white branches of the birch-trees seemed a long line of phantoms in their shrouds. The fire cast its reflection in the pool; and the frogs, growing accustomed to the light, hazarded a few shrill and uneasy notes; the rugged branches of the old trees, bristling with dim-colored lichens, crossed and intertwined themselves, like great gaunt arms, above the travelers’ heads. It was a lovely spot, but so lonely and so sad that Germain, unable to endure it more, began to sing and throw stones into the water to forget the dread weariness of solitude. He was anxious also to wake little Marie, and when he saw her rise and look about at the weather, he proposed that they start on their journey.

“In two hours,” said he, “the approach of morning will chill the air so that we can’t stay here in spite of our fire. Now we can see our way, and we shall soon find a house which will open its doors to us, or at least a barn where we can pass the rest of the night under shelter.”

Marie had no will of her own, and although she was longing to sleep, she made ready to follow Germain. The husbandman took his boy in his arms without awaking him, and beckoned Marie to come nearer, in order to cover her with his cloak. For she would not take her own mantle, which was wrapped about the child.

When he felt the young girl so close to him, Germain, who for a time had succeeded in distracting his mind and raising his spirits, began to lose his head once more. Two or three times he strode ahead abruptly, leaving her to walk alone. Then seeing how hard it was for her to follow, he waited, drew her quickly to his side, and pressed her so tight that she was surprised, and even angry, though she dared not say so.

As they knew not the direction whence they had come, they had no idea of that in which they were going. So they crossed the wood once more, and found themselves afresh before the lonely moor. Then they retraced their steps, and after much turning and twisting they spied a light across the branches.

“Good enough! Here’s a house,” exclaimed Germain. “And the people are already astir, for the fire is lighted. It must be very late.”

It was no house, but the camp-fire, which they had covered before they left, and which had sprung up in the breeze.

They had tramped for two hours, only to find themselves at the very place from which they had started.

X

Beneath the Stars

“This time I give up,” said Germain, stamping his foot. “We are bewitched, that is certain, and we shall not get away from here before broad day. The devil is in this place!”

“Well, it’s of no use to get angry,” said Marie. “We must take what is given us. Let us make a big fire. The child is so well wrapped up that he is in no danger, and we shall not die from a single night out of doors. Where have you hidden the saddle, Germain? Right in the midst of the holly-bushes,--what a goose you are! It’s very convenient to get it from there!”

“Stop, child; hold the boy while I pull his bed from the thorns. I didn’t want you to scratch your hands.”

“It’s all done. Here’s the bed, and a few scratches are not saber-cuts,” replied the brave girl.

She proceeded to put the child to bed again, and Petit-Pierre was so sound asleep this time that he knew nothing of his last journey. Germain piled so much wood on the fire that the forest all about glowed with the light.

Little Marie had come to the end of her powers, and although she did not complain, her legs would support her no longer. She was white, and her teeth chattered with cold and weakness. Germain took her in his arms to warm her. The uneasiness, the compassion, the tenderness of movement he could not repress, took possession of his heart and stilled his senses. As by a miracle his tongue was loosened, and every feeling of shame vanished.

“Marie,” said he, “I like you, and I am very sorry that you don’t like me. If you would take me for your husband, there are no fathers, nor family, nor neighbors, nor arguments which could prevent me from giving myself to you. I know how happy you would make my children, and that you would teach them to love the memory of their mother, and with a quiet conscience I could satisfy the wishes of my heart. I have always been fond of you, and now I love you so well that were you to ask me to spend all my life in doing your pleasure, I would swear to do it on the instant. Please think how much I love you, and try to forget my age. Think that it is a wrong notion to believe that a man of thirty is old. Besides, I am but twenty-eight. A young girl is afraid that people will talk about her if she takes a man ten or twelve years older than she, simply because that is not the custom in our country, but I have heard say that in other countries people don’t look at it in this light, and that they had rather allow a sensible man of approved courage to support a young girl, than trust her to a mere boy, who may go astray, and, from the honest fellow they thought him, turn into a good-for-nothing. And then years don’t always make age. That depends on the health and strength a person has. When a man is used up by overwork and poverty, or by a bad life, he is old before twenty-five. While I--but Marie, you are not listening....”