Little Marie seemed to pay no further heed1 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 maiden2, 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 determined3 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 moors5 and bogs6, where you will catch the fever in autumn, where there's no profit in raising sheep for wool, which always vexes7 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 kindly8, 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 lodged9, 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 jealousy10.—"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 heartily11, "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 glutton12. If you had seen the wry13 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 drowsiness14, like children who fall asleep while they are prattling15.
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 gunpowder16, 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............