"By the way," said Germain, when they had ridden on a short distance, "what will they think at home when this little man doesn't appear? The old people will be anxious, and they will scour¹ the country for him."  
"You can tell the man working on the road yonder that you have taken him with you, and send him back to tell your people."
 
"True, Marie, you think of everything! It didn't even occur to me that Jeannie would be in this neighborhood."
 
"He lives close to the farm, too: he won't fail to do your errand."
 
When they had taken that precaution, Germain started the mare² off at a trot³, and Petit Pierre was so overjoyed that he did not notice at first that he had not dined; but as the rapid movement of the horse dug a pit in his stomach, he began, after a league or more, to yawn and turn pale, and at last confessed that he was dying of hunger.
 
"Now he's beginning," said Germain. "I knew that we shouldn't go far before monsieur would cry from hunger or thirst."
 
"I'm thirsty, too!" said Petit-Pierre.
 
"Well, we will go to Mère Rebec's wine-shop at Corlay, at the sign of the Break of Day. A fine sign, but a poor inn! Come, Marie, you will drink a finger of wine too."
 
"No, no, I don't need anything," she said, "I'll hold the mare while you go in with the little one."
 
"But now I think of it, my dear girl, you gave the bread you had for your luncheon⁴ to my Pierre, and you haven't had anything to eat; you refused to dine with us at the house, and did nothing but weep."
 
"Oh! I wasn't hungry, I was too sad! and I promise you that I haven't the slightest desire to eat now."
 
"We must force you to, little one; otherwise you'll be sick. We have a long way to go, and we mustn't arrive there half-starved, and ask for bread before we say good-day. I propose to set you the example, although I'm not very hungry; but I shall make out to eat, considering that I didn't dine very well, either. I saw you and your mother weeping, and it made my heart sick. Come, come, I will tie Grise at the door; get down, I insist upon it."
 
All three entered Mere⁵ Rebec's establishment, and in less than a quarter of an hour the stout⁶, limping hostess succeeded in serving them an omelet of respectable appearance with brown-bread and light wine.
 
Peasants do not eat quickly, and Petit-Pierre had such an enormous appetite that nearly an hour passed before Germain could think of renewing their journey. Little Marie ate to oblige at first; then her appetite came, little by little; for at sixteen one cannot fast long, and the country air is an imperious master. The kind words Germain said to her to comfort her and give her courage also produced their effect; she made an effort to persuade herself that seven months would soon be passed, and to think how happy she would be to be at home once more, in her own village, since Père Maurice and Germain were agreed in promising⁷ to take her into their service. But as she was beginning to brighten up and play with Petit-Pierre, Germain conceived the unfortunate idea of telling her to look out through the wine-shop window at the lovely view of the valley, which they could see throughout its whole length from that elevation⁸, laughing and verdant⁹ and fertile. Marie looked, and asked if they could see the houses at Belair from there.
 
"To be sure," replied Germain, "and the farm, and your house too. Look, that little gray speck¹⁰, not far from the great poplar at Godard, just below the church-spire."
 
"Ah! I see it," said the girl; and thereupon she began to weep again.
 
"I did wrong to remind you of that," said Germain, "I keep doing foolish things to-day! Come, Marie, my girl, let's be off; the days are short, and when the moon comes up, an hour from now, it won't be warm."
 
They resumed their journey, and rode across the great heath, and as Germain did not urge the mare, in order not to fatigue¹¹ the girl and the child by a too rapid gait, the sun had set when they left the road to enter the woods.
 
Germain knew the road as far as Magnier; but he thought that he could shorten it by not taking the avenue of Chanteloube, but going by Presles and La Sépulture, a route which he was not in the habit of taking when he went to the fair. He went astray and lost a little more time before entering the woods; even then he did not enter at the right place, and failed to discover his mistake, so that he turned his back to Fourche and headed much farther up, in the direction of Ardentes.
 
He was prevented then from taking his bearings by a mist which came with the darkness, one of those autumn evening mists which the white moonlight makes more vague and more deceptive¹². The great pools of water which

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