."
"
Oh
!
—
women
,
tiresome
enough
.
If
I
had
seen
you
,
I
would
have
dropped
you
some
fruit
.
Poor
little
Bébée
!
Did
you
go
by
,
and
I
never
knew
?
"
"
You
were
laughing
—
"
"
Was
I
?
"
"
Yes
,
and
they
were
beautiful
.
"
"
In
their
own
eyes
;
not
in
mine
.
"
"
No
?
"
She
stopped
her
spinning
and
gazed
at
him
with
wistful
,
wondering
eyes
.
Could
it
be
that
they
were
not
beautiful
to
him
?
those
deep
red
,
glowing
,
sun-basked
dahlia
flowers
?
"
Do
you
know
,
"
she
said
very
softly
,
with
a
flush
of
penitence
that
came
and
went
,
"
when
I
saw
them
,
I
hated
them
;
I
confessed
it
to
Father
Francis
next
day
.
You
seemed
so
content
with
,
them
,
and
they
looked
so
gay
and
glad
there
—
and
then
the
jewels
!
Somehow
,
I
seemed
to
myself
such
a
little
thing
,
and
so
ugly
and
mean
.
And
yet
,
do
you
know
—
"
"
And
yet
—
well
?
"
"
They
did
not
look
to
me
good
—
those
women
,
"
said
Bébée
,
thoughtfully
,
looking
across
at
him
in
deprecation
of
his
possible
anger
.
"
They
were
great
people
,
I
suppose
,
and
they
appeared
very
happy
;
but
though
I
seemed
nothing
to
myself
after
them
,
still
I
think
I
would
not
change
.
"
"
You
are
wise
without
books
,
Bébée
.
"
"
Oh
,
no
,
I
am
not
wise
at
all
.
I
only
feel
.
And
give
me
books
;
oh
,
pray
,
give
me
books
!
You
do
not
know
;
I
will
learn
so
fast
;
and
I
will
not
neglect
anything
,
that
I
promise
.
The
neighbors
and
Jeannot
say
that
I
shall
let
the
flowers
die
,
and
the
hut
get
dirty
,
and
never
spin
or
prick
Annémie
's
patterns
;
but
that
is
untrue
.
I
will
do
all
,
just
as
I
have
done
,
and
more
too
,
if
only
you
will
give
me
things
to
read
,
for
I
do
think
when
one
is
happy
,
one
ought
to
work
more
—
not
less
.
"
"
But
will
these
books
make
you
happy
?
If
you
ask
me
the
truth
,
I
must
tell
you
—
no.
You
are
happy
as
you
are
,
because
you
know
nothing
else
than
your
own
little
life
;
for
ignorance
is
happiness
,
Bébée
,
let
sages
,
ancient
and
modern
,
say
what
they
will
.
But
when
you
know
a
little
,
you
will
want
to
know
more
:
and
when
you
know
much
,
you
will
want
to
see
much
also
,
and
then
—
and
then
—
the
thing
will
grow
—
you
will
be
no
longer
content
.
That
is
,
you
will
be
unhappy
.
"
Bébée
watched
him
with
wistful
eyes
.
"
Perhaps
that
is
true
.
No
doubt
it
is
true
,
if
you
say
it
.
But
you
know
all
the
world
seems
full
of
voices
that
I
hear
,
but
that
I
cannot
understand
;
it
is
with
me
as
I
should
think
it
is
with
people
who
go
to
foreign
countries
and
do
not
know
the
tongue
that
is
spoken
when
they
land
;
and
it
makes
me
unhappy
,
because
I
cannot
comprehend
,
and
so
the
books
will
not
make
me
more
so
,
but
less
.
And
as
for
being
content
—
when
I
thought
you
were
gone
away
out
of
the
city
,
last
night
,
I
thought
I
would
never
be
able
to
pray
any
more
,
because
I
hated
myself
,
and
I
almost
hated
the
angels
,
and
I
told
Mary
that
she
was
cruel
,
and
she
turned
her
face
from
me
—
as
it
seemed
,
forever
.
"
She
spoke
quite
quietly
and
simply
,
spinning
as
she
spoke
,
and
looking
across
at
him
with
earnest
eyes
,
that
begged
him
to
believe
her
.
She
was
saying
the
pure
truth
,
but
she
did
not
know
the
force
or
the
meaning
of
that
truth
.
He
listened
with
a
smile
;
it
was
not
new
to
him
;
he
knew
her
heart
much
better
than
she
knew
it
herself
,
but
there
was
an
unconsciousness
,
and
yet
a
strength
,
in
the
words
that
touched
him
though
.
He
threw
the
leaves
away
,
irritably
,
and
told
her
to
leave
off
her
spinning
.
"
Some
day
I
shall
paint
you
with
that
wheel
as
I
painted
the
Broodhuis
.
Will
you
let
me
,
Bébée
?
"
"
Yes
.
"
She
answered
him
as
she
would
have
answered
if
he
had
told
her
to
go
on
pilgrimage
from
one
end
of
the
Low
Countries
to
the
other
.
"
What
were
you
going
to
do
to-day
?
"
"
I
am
going
into
the
market
with
the
flowers
;
I
go
every
day
.
"
"
How
much
will
you
make
?
"
"
Two
or
three
francs
,
if
I
am
lucky
.
"
"
And
do
you
never
have
a
holiday
?
"
"
Oh
,
yes
;
but
not
often
,
you
know
,
because
it
is
on
the
fete
days
that
the
people
want
the
most
flowers
.
"
"
But
in
the
winter
?
"
"
Then
I
work
at
the
lace
.
"
"
Do
you
never
go
into
the
woods
?
"
"
I
have
been
once
or
twice
;
but
it
loses
a
whole
day
.
"
"
You
are
afraid
of
not
earning
?
"
"
Yes
.
Because
I
am
afraid
of
owing
people
anything
.
"
"
Well
,
give
up
this
one
day
,
and
we
will
make
holiday
.
The
people
are
out
;
they
will
not
know
.
Come
into
the
forest
,
and
we
will
dine
at
a
café
in
the
woods
;
and
we
will
be
as
poetic
as
you
like
,
and
I
will
tell
you
a
tale
of
one
called
Rosalind
,
who
pranked
herself
in
boy
's
attire
,
all
for
love
,
in
the
Ardennes
country
yonder
.
Come
,
it
is
the
very
day
for
the
forest
;
it
will
make
me
a
lad
again
at
Meudon
,
when
the
lilacs
were
in
bloom
.
Poor
Paris
!
Come
.
"
"
Do
you
mean
it
?
"
The
color
was
bright
in
her
face
,
her
heart
was
dancing
,
her
little
feet
felt
themselves
already
on
the
fresh
green
turf
.
She
had
no
thought
that
there
could
be
any
harm
in
it
.
She
would
have
gone
with
Jeannot
or
old
Bac
.
"
Of
course
I
mean
it
.
Come
.
I
was
going
to
Mayence
to
see
the
Magi
and
Van
Dyck
's
Christ
.
We
will
go
to
Soignies
instead
,
and
study
green
leaves
.
I
will
paint
your
face
by
sunlight
.
It
is
the
best
way
to
paint
you
.
You
belong
to
the
open
air
.
So
should
Gretchen
;
or
how
else
should
she
have
the
blue
sky
in
her
eyes
?
"
"
But
I
have
only
wooden
shoes
!
"
Her
face
was
scarlet
as
she
glanced
at
her
feet
;
he
who
had
wanted
to
give
her
the
silk
stockings
—
how
would
he
like
to
be
seen
walking
abroad
with
those
two
clumsy
,
clattering
,
work-a-day
,
little
sabots
?
"
Never
mind
.
My
dear
,
in
my
time
I
have
had
enough
of
satin
shoes
and
of
silver
gilt
heels
;
they
click-clack
as
loud
as
yours
,
and
cost
much
more
to
those
who
walk
with
them
,
not
to
mention
that
they
will
seldom
deign
to
walk
at
all
.
Your
wooden
shoes
are
picturesque
.
Paganini
made
a
violin
out
of
a
wooden
shoe
.
Who
knows
what
music
may
lurk
in
yours
,
only
you
have
never
heard
it
.
Perhaps
I
have
.
It
was
Bac
who
gave
you
the
red
shoes
that
was
the
barbarian
,
not
I
.
Come
.
"
"
You
really
mean
it
?
"
"
Come
.
"
"
But
they
will
miss
me
at
market
.
"
"
They
will
think
you
are
gone
on
the
pilgrimage
:
you
need
never
tell
them
you
have
not
.
"
"
But
if
they
ask
me
?
"
"
Does
it
never
happen
that
you
say
any
other
thing
than
the
truth
?
"
"
Any
other
thing
than
the
truth
!
Of
course
not
.
People
take
for
granted
that
one
tells
truth
;
it
would
be
very
base
to
cheat
them
.
Do
you
really
mean
that
I
may
come
?
—
in
the
forest
!
—
and
you
will
tell
me
stories
like
those
you
give
me
to
read
?
"
"
I
will
tell
you
a
better
story
.
Lock
your
hut
,
Bébée
,
and
come
.
"
"
And
to
think
you
are
not
ashamed
!
"
"
Ashamed
?
"
"
Yes
,
because
of
my
wooden
shoes
.
"
Was
it
possible
?
Bébée
thought
,
as
she
ran
out
into
the
garden
and
locked
the
door
behind
her
,
and
pushed
the
key
under
the
waterbutt
as
usual
,
being
quite
content
with
that
prudent
precaution
against
robbers
which
had
served
Antoine
all
his
days
.
Was
it
possible
,
this
wonderful
joy
?
—
her
cheeks
were
like
her
roses
,
her
eyes
had
a
brilliance
like
the
sun
;
the
natural
grace
and
mirth
of
the
child
blossomed
in
a
thousand
ways
and
gestures
.
As
she
went
by
the
shrine
in
the
wall
,
she
bent
her
knee
a
moment
and
made
the
sign
of
the
cross
;
then
she
gathered
a
little
moss-rose
that
nodded
close
under
the
border
of
the
palisade
,
and
turned
and
gave
it
to
him
.
"
Look
,
she
sends
you
this
.
She
is
not
angry
,
you
see
,
and
it
is
much
more
pleasure
when
she
is
pleased
—
do
you
not
know
?
"
He
shrank
a
little
as
her
fingers
touched
him
.
"
What
a
pity
you
had
no
mother
,
Bébée
!
"
he
said
,
on
an
impulse
of
emotion
,
of
which
in
Paris
he
would
have
been
more
ashamed
than
of
any
guilt
.
CHAPTER
XV
.
In
the
deserted
lane
by
the
swans
'
water
,
under
the
willows
,
the
horses
waited
to
take
him
to
Mechlin
;
little
,
quick
,
rough
horses
,
with
round
brass
bells
,
in
the
Flemish
fashion
,
and
gay
harness
,
and
a
low
char-à-banc
,
in
which
a
wolf-skin
and
red
rugs
,
and
all
a
painter
's
many
necessities
,
were
tossed
together
.
He
lifted
her
in
,
and
the
little
horses
flew
fast
through
the
green
country
,
ringing
chimes
at
each
step
,
till
they
plunged
into
the
deep
glades
of
the
woods
of
Cambre
and
Soignies
.
Bébée
sat
breathless
with
delight
.
She
had
never
gone
behind
horses
in
all
her
life
,
except
once
or
twice
in
a
wagon
when
the
tired
teamsters
had
dragged
a
load
of
corn
across
the
plains
,
or
when
the
miller
's
old
gray
mare
had
hobbled
wearily
before
a
cart-load
of
noisy
,
happy
,
mischievous
children
going
home
from
the
masses
and
fairs
,
and
flags
,
and
flowers
,
and
church
banners
,
and
puppet-shows
,
and
lighted
altars
,
and
whirling
merry-go-rounds
of
the
Fête
Dieu
.
She
had
never
known
what
it
was
to
sail
as
on
the
wings
of
the
wind
along
broad
roads
,
with
yellow
wheat-lands
,
and
green
hedges
,
and
wayside
trees
,
and
little
villages
,
and
reedy
canal
water
,
all
flying
by
her
to
the
sing-song
of
the
joyous
bells
.
"
Oh
,
how
good
it
is
to
live
!
"
she
cried
,
clapping
her
hands
in
a
very
ecstasy
,
as
the
clear
morning
broadened
into
gold
and
the
west
wind
rose
and
blew
from
the
sands
by
the
sea
.
"
Yes
—
it
is
good
—
if
one
did
not
tire
so
soon
,
"
said
he
,
watching
her
with
a
listless
pleasure
.
But
she
did
not
hear
;
she
was
beyond
the
reach
of
any
power
to
sadden
her
;
she
was
watching
the
white
oxen
that
stood
on
the
purple
brow
of
the
just
reapen
lands
,
and
the
rosy
clouds
that
blew
like
a
shower
of
apple-blossoms
across
the
sky
to
the
south
.
There
was
a
sad
darkling
Calvary
on
the
edge
of
the
harvest-field
that
looked
black
against
the
blue
sky
;
its
shadow
fell
across
the
road
,
but
she
did
not
see
it
:
she
was
looking
at
the
sun
.
There
is
not
much
change
in
the
great
Soignies
woods
.
They
are
aisles
on
aisles
of
beautiful
green
trees
,
crossing
and
recrossing
;
tunnels
of
dark
foliage
that
look
endless
;
long
avenues
of
beech
,
of
oak
,
of
elm
,
or
of
fir
,
with
the
bracken
and
the
brushwood
growing
dense
between
;
a
delicious
forest
growth
everywhere
,
shady
even
at
noon
,
and
by
a
little
past
midday
dusky
as
evening
;
with
the
forest
fragrance
,
sweet
and
dewy
,
all
about
,
and
under
the
fern
the
stirring
of
wild
game
,
and
the
white
gleam
of
little
rabbits
,
and
the
sound
of
the
wings
of
birds
.
Soignies
is
not
legend-haunted
like
the
Black
Forest
,
nor
king-haunted
like
Fontainebleau
,
nor
sovereign
of
two
historic
streams
like
the
brave
woods
of
Heidelberg
;
nor
wild
and
romantic
,
arid
broken
with
black
rocks
,
and
poetized
by
the
shade
of
Jaques
,
and
swept
through
by
a
perfect
river
,
like
its
neighbors
of
Ardennes
;
nor
throned
aloft
on
mighty
mountains
like
the
majestic
oak
glades
of
the
Swabian
hills
of
the
ivory
carvers
.
Soignies
is
only
a
Flemish
forest
in
a
plain
,
throwing
its
shadows
over
corn-fields
and
cattle
pastures
,
with
no
panorama
beyond
it
and
no
wonders
in
its
depth
.
But
it
is
a
fresh
,
bold
,
beautiful
forest
for
all
that
.
It
has
only
green
leaves
to
give
,
—
green
leaves
always
,
league
after
league
;
but
there
is
about
it
that
vague
mystery
which
all
forests
have
,
and
this
universe
of
leaves
seems
boundless
,
and
Pan
might
dwell
in
it
,
and
St.
Hubert
,
and
John
Keats
.
Bébée
,
in
her
rare
holidays
with
the
Bac
children
or
with
Jeannot
's
sisters
,
had
never
penetrated
farther
than
the
glades
of
the
Cambre
,
and
had
never
entered
the
heart
of
the
true
forest
,
which
is
much
still
what
it
must
have
been
in
the
old
days
when
the
burghers
of
Brabant
cut
their
yew
bows
and
their
pike
staves
from
it
to
use
against
the
hosts
of
Spain
.
To
Bébée
it
was
as
an
enchanted
land
,
and
every
play
of
light
and
shade
,
every
hare
speeding
across
the
paths
,
every
thrush
singing
in
the
leaves
,
every
little
dog-rose
or
harebell
that
blossomed
in
the
thickets
,
was
to
her
a
treasure
,
a
picture
,
a
poem
,
a
delight
.
He
had
seen
girls
thus
in
the
woods
of
Vincennes
and
of
Versailles
in
the
student
days
of
his
youth
:
little
work-girls
fresh
from
châlets
of
the
Jura
or
from
vine-hung
huts
of
the
Loire
,
who
had
brought
their
poor
little
charms
to
perish
in
Paris
;
and
who
dwelt
under
the
hot
tiles
and
amidst
the
gilded
shop
signs
till
they
were
as
pale
and
thin
as
their
own
starved
balsams
;
and
who
,
when
they
saw
the
green
woods
,
laughed
and
cried
a
little
,
and
thought
of
the
broad
sun-swept
fields
,
and
wished
that
they
were
back
again
behind
their
drove
of
cows
,
or
weeding
among
the
green
grapes
.
But
those
little
work-girls
had
been
mere
homely
daisies
,
and
daisies
already
with
the
dust
of
the
pavement
and
of
the
dancing-gardens
upon
them
.
Bébée
was
as
pure
and
fresh
as
these
dew-wet
dog-roses
that
she
found
in
the
thickets
of
thorn
.
He
had
meant
to
treat
her
as
he
had
used
to
do
those
work-girls
—
a
little
wine
,
a
little
wooing
,
a
little
folly
and
passion
,
idle
as
a
butterfly
and
brief
as
a
rainbow
—
one
midsummer
day
and
night
—
then
a
handful
of
gold
,
a
caress
,
a
good-morrow
,
and
forgetfulness
ever
afterwards
—
that
was
what
he
had
meant
when
he
had
brought
her
out
to
the
forest
of
Soignies
.
But
—
she
was
different
,
this
child
.
He
made
the
great
sketch
of
her
for
his
Gretchen
,
sitting
on
a
moss-grown
trunk
,
with
marguerites
in
her
hand
;
he
sent
for
their
breakfast
far
into
the
woods
,
and
saw
her
set
her
pearly
teeth
into
early
peaches
and
costly
sweetmeats
;
he
wandered
with
her
hither
and
thither
,
and
told
her
tales
out
of
the
poets
and
talked
to
her
in
the
dreamy
,
cynical
,
poetical
manner
that
was
characteristic
of
him
,
being
half
artificial
and
half
sorrowful
,
as
his
temper
was
.
But
Bébée
,
all
unconscious
,
intoxicated
with
happiness
,
and
yet
touched
by
it
into
that
vague
sadness
which
the
summer
sun
brings
with
it
even
to
young
things
,
if
they
have
soul
in
them
,
—
Bébée
said
to
him
what
the
work-girls
of
Paris
never
had
done
.
Beautiful
things
:
things
fantastic
,
ignorant
,
absurd
,
very
simple
,
very
unreasonable
oftentimes
,
but
things
beautiful
always
,
and
sometimes
even
very
wise
by
a
wisdom
not
of
the
world
;
by
a
certain
light
divine
that
does
shine
now
and
then
as
through
an
alabaster
lamp
,
through
minds
that
have
no
grossness
to
obscure
them
.
Her
words
were
not
equal
to
the
burden
of
her
thoughts
at
times
,
but
he
knew
how
to
take
the
pearl
of
the
thought
from
the
broken
shell
and
tangled
sea-weed
of
her
simple
,
untutored
speech
.
"
If
there
be
a
God
anywhere
,
"
he
thought
to
himself
,
"
this
little
Fleming
is
very
near
him
.
"
She
was
so
near
that
,
although
he
had
no
belief
in
any
God
,
he
could
not
deal
with
her
as
he
had
used
to
do
with
the
work-girls
in
the
primrose
paths
of
old
Vincennes
.
CHAPTER
XVI
.
"
To
be
Gretchen
,
you
must
count
the
leaves
of
your
daisies
,
"
he
said
to
her
,
as
he
painted
,
—
painted
her
just
as
she
was
,
with
her
two
little
white
feet
in
the
wooden
shoes
,
and
the
thick
green
leaves
behind
;
the
simplest
picture
possible
,
the
dress
of
gray
—
only
cool
dark
gray
—
with
white
linen
bodice
,
and
no
color
anywhere
except
in
the
green
of
the
foliage
;
but
where
he
meant
the
wonder
and
the
charm
of
it
to
lie
was
in
the
upraised
,
serious
,
child-like
face
,
and
the
gaze
of
the
grave
,
smiling
eyes
.
It
was
Gretchen
,
spinning
,
out
in
the
open
air
among
the
flowers
.
Gretchen
,
with
the
tall
dog-daisies
growing
up
about
her
feet
,
among
the
thyme
and
the
roses
,
before
she
had
had
need
to
gather
,
one
to
ask
her
future
of
its
parted
leaves
.
The
Gretchen
of
Scheffer
tells
no
tale
;
she
is
a
fair-haired
,
hard-working
,
simple-minded
peasant
,
with
whom
neither
angels
nor
devils
have
anything
to
do
,
and
whose
eyes
never
can
open
to
either
hell
or
heaven
.
But
the
Gretchen
of
Flamen
said
much
more
than
this
:
looking
at
it
,
men
would
sigh
from
shame
,
and
women
weep
from
sorrow
.
"
Count
the
daisies
?
"
echoed
Bébée
.
"
Oh
,
I
know
what
you
mean
.
A
little
—
much
—
passionately
—
until
death
—
not
at
all
.
What
the
girls
say
when
they
want
to
see
if
any
one
loves
them
?
Is
that
it
?
"
She
looked
at
him
without
any
consciousness
,
except
as
she
loved
the
flowers
.
"
Do
you
think
the
daisies
know
?
"
she
went
on
,
seriously
,
parting
their
petals
with
her
fingers
.
"
Flowers
do
know
many
things
—
that
is
certain
.
"
"
Ask
them
for
yourself
.
"
"
Ask
them
what
?
"
"
How
much
—
any
one
—
loves
you
?
"
"
Oh
,
but
every
one
loves
me
;
there
is
no
one
that
is
bad
.
Antoine
used
to
say
to
me
.
'
Never
think
of
yourself
,
Bébée
;
always
think
of
other
people
,
so
every
one
will
love
you
.
'
And
I
always
try
to
do
that
,
and
every
one
does
.
"
"
But
that
is
not
the
love
the
daisy
tells
of
to
your
sex
.
"
"
No
?
"
"
No
;
the
girls
that
you
see
count
the
flowers
—
they
are
thinking
,
not
of
all
the
village
,
but
of
some
one
unlike
all
the
rest
,
whose
shadow
falls
across
theirs
in
the
moonlight
!
You
know
that
?
"
"
Ah
,
yes
—
and
they
marry
afterwards
—
yes
.
"
She
said
it
softly
,
musingly
,
with
no
embarrassment
;
it
was
an
unreal
,
remote
thing
to
her
,
and
yet
it
stirred
her
heart
a
little
with
a
vague
trouble
that
was
infinitely
sweet
.
There
is
little
talk
of
love
in
the
lives
of
the
poor
;
they
have
no
space
for
it
;
love
to
them
means
more
mouths
to
feed
,
more
wooden
shoes
to
buy
,
more
hands
to
dive
into
the
meagre
bag
of
coppers
.
Now
and
then
a
girl
of
the
commune
had
been
married
,
and
had
ploughing
in
the
fields
or
to
her
lace-weaving
in
the
city
.
Bébée
had
thought
little
of
it
.
"
They
marry
or
they
do
not
marry
.
That
is
as
it
may
be
,
"
said
Flamen
,
with
a
smile
.
"
Bébée
,
I
must
paint
you
as
Gretchen
before
she
made
a
love-dial
of
the
daisies
.
What
is
the
story
?
Oh
,
I
have
told
you
stories
enough
.
Gretchen
's
you
would
not
understand
,
just
yet
.
"
"
But
what
did
the
daisies
say
to
her
?
"
"
My
dear
,
the
daisies
always
say
the
same
thing
,
because
daisies
always
tell
the
truth
and
know
men
.
The
daisies
always
say
'
a
little
'
;
it
is
the
girl
's
ear
that
tricks
her
,
and
makes
her
hear
'
till
death
,
'
—
a
folly
and
falsehood
of
which
the
daisy
is
not
guilty
.
"
"
But
who
says
it
if
the
daisy
does
not
?
"
"
Ah
,
the
devil
perhaps
—
who
knows
?
He
has
so
much
to
do
in
these
things
.
"
But
Bébée
did
not
smile
;
she
had
a
look
of
horror
in
her
blue
eyes
;
she
belonged
to
a
peasantry
who
believed
in
exorcising
the
fiend
by
the
aid
of
the
cross
,
and
who
not
so
very
many
generations
before
had
driven
him
out
of
human
bodies
by
rack
and
flame
.
She
looked
with
a
little
wistful
fear
on
the
white
,
golden-eyed
marguerites
that
lay
on
her
lap
.
"
Do
you
think
the
fiend
is
in
these
?
"
she
whispered
,
with
awe
in
her
voice
.
Flamen
smiled
.
"
When
you
count
them
he
will
be
there
,
no
doubt
.
"
Bébée
threw
them
with
a
shudder
on
the
grass
.
"
Have
I
spoilt
your
holiday
,
dear
?
"
he
said
,
with
a
certain
self-reproach
.
She
was
silent
a
minute
,
then
she
gathered
up
the
daisies
again
,
and
stroked
them
and
put
them
to
her
lips
.
"
It
is
not
they
that
do
wrong
.
You
say
the
girls
'
ears
deceive
them
.
It
is
the
girls
who
want
a
lie
and
will
not
believe
a
truth
because
it
humbles
them
;
it
is
the
girls
that
are
to
blame
,
not
the
daisies
.
As
for
me
,
I
will
not
ask
the
daisies
anything
ever
,
so
the
fiend
will
not
enter
into
them
.
"
"
Nor
into
you
.
Poor
little
Bébée
!
"
"
Why
,
you
pity
me
for
that
?
"
"
Yes
.
Because
,
if
women
never
see
the
serpent
's
face
,
neither
do
they
ever
scent
the
smell
of
the
paradise
roses
;
and
it
will
be
hard
for
you
to
die
without
a
single
rose
d'amour
in
your
pretty
breast
,
poor
little
Bébée
?
"
"
I
do
not
understand
.
But
you
frighten
me
a
little
.
"
He
rose
and
left
his
easel
and
threw
himself
at
her
feet
on
the
grass
;
he
took
the
little
wooden
shoes
in
his
hands
as
reverently
as
he
would
have
taken
the
broidered
shoes
of
a
duchess
;
he
looked
up
at
her
with
tender
,
smiling
eyes
.
"
Poor
little
Bébée
!
"
he
said
again
.
"
Did
I
frighten
you
indeed
?
Nay
,
that
was
very
base
of
me
.
We
will
not
spoil
our
summer
holiday
.
There
is
no
such
thing
as
a
fiend
,
my
dear
.
There
are
only
men
—
such
as
I
am
.
Say
the
daisy
spell
over
for
me
,
Bébée
.
See
if
I
do
not
love
you
a
little
,
just
as
you
love
your
flowers
.
"
She
smiled
,
and
the
happy
laughter
came
again
over
her
face
.
"
Oh
,
I
am
sure
you
care
for
me
a
little
,
"
she
said
,
softly
,
"
or
you
would
not
be
so
good
and
get
me
books
and
give
me
pleasure
;
and
I
do
not
want
the
daisies
to
tell
me
that
,
because
you
say
it
yourself
,
which
is
better
.
"
"
Much
better
.
"
he
answered
her
dreamily
,
and
lay
there
in
the
grass
,
holding
the
little
wooden
shoes
in
his
hands
.
He
was
not
in
love
with
her
.
He
was
in
no
haste
.
He
preferred
to
play
with
her
softly
,
slowly
,
as
one
separates
the
leaves
of
a
rose
,
to
see
the
deep
rose
of
its
heart
.
Her
own
ignorance
of
what
she
felt
had
a
charm
for
him
.
He
liked
to
lift
the
veil
from
her
eyes
by
gentle
degrees
,
watching
each
new
pulse-beat
,
each
fresh
instinct
tremble
into
life
.
It
was
an
old
,
old
story
to
him
;
he
knew
each
chapter
and
verse
to
weariness
,
though
there
still
was
no
other
story
that
he
still
read
as
often
.
But
to
her
it
was
so
new
.
To
him
it
was
a
long
beaten
track
;
he
knew
every
turn
of
it
;
he
recognized
every
wayside
blossom
;
he
had
passed
over
a
thousand
times
each
tremulous
bridge
;
he
knew
so
well
beforehand
where
each
shadow
would
fall
,
and
where
each
fresh
bud
would
blossom
,
and
where
each
harvest
would
be
reaped
.
But
to
her
it
was
so
new
.
She
followed
him
as
a
blind
child
a
man
that
guides
her
through
a
garden
and
reads
her
a
wonder
tale
.
He
was
good
to
her
,
that
was
all
she
knew
.
When
he
touched
her
ever
so
lightly
she
felt
a
happiness
so
perfect
,
and
yet
so
unintelligible
,
that
she
could
have
wished
to
die
in
it
.
And
in
her
humility
and
her
ignorance
she
wondered
always
how
he
—
so
great
,
so
wise
,
so
beautiful
—
could
have
thought
it
ever
worth
his
while
to
leave
the
paradise
of
Rubes
'
land
to
wait
with
her
under
her
little
rush-thatched
roof
,
and
bring
her
here
to
see
the
green
leaves
and
the
living
things
of
the
forest
.
As
they
went
,
a
man
was
going
under
the
trees
with
a
load
of
wood
upon
his
back
.
Bébée
gave
a
little
cry
of
recognition
.
"
Oh
,
look
,
that
is
Jeannot
!
How
he
will
wonder
to
see
me
here
!
"
Flamen
drew
her
a
little
downward
,
so
that
the
forester
passed
onward
without
perceiving
them
.
"
Why
do
you
do
that
?
"
said
Bébée
.
"
Shall
I
not
speak
to
him
?
"
"
Why
?
To
have
all
your
neighbors
chatter
of
your
feast
in
the
forest
?
It
is
not
worth
while
.
"
"
Ah
,
but
I
always
tell
them
everything
,
"
said
Bébée
.
whose
imagination
had
been
already
busy
with
the
wonders
that
she
would
unfold
to
Mère
Krebs
and
the
Varnhart
children
.
"
Then
you
will
see
but
little
of
me
,
my
dear
.
Learn
to
be
silent
,
Bébée
.
It
is
a
woman
's
first
duty
,
though
her
hardest
.
"
"
Is
it
?
"
She
did
not
speak
for
some
time
.
She
could
not
imagine
a
state
of
things
in
which
she
would
not
narrate
the
little
daily
miracles
of
her
life
to
the
good
old
garrulous
women
and
the
little
open-mouthed
romps
.
And
yet
—
she
lifted
her
eyes
to
his
.
"
I
am
glad
you
have
told
me
that
,
"
she
said
.
"
Though
indeed
.
I
do
not
see
why
one
should
not
say
what
one
does
,
yet
—
somehow
—
I
do
not
like
to
talk
about
you
.
It
is
like
the
pictures
in
the
galleries
,
and
the
music
in
the
cathedral
,
and
the
great
still
evenings
,
when
the
fields
are
all
silent
,
and
it
is
as
if
Christ
walked
abroad
in
them
;
I
do
not
know
how
to
talk
of
those
things
to
the
others
—
only
to
you
—
and
I
do
not
like
to
talk
about
you
to
them
—
do
you
not
know
?
"
"
Yes
,
I
know
.
But
what
affinity
have
I
.
Bébée
,
to
your
thoughts
of
your
God
walking
in
His
cornfields
?
"
Bébée
's
eyes
glanced
down
through
the
green
aisle
of
the
forests
,
with
the
musing
seriousness
in
them
that
was
like
the
child-angels
of
Botticelli
's
dreams
.
"
I
cannot
tell
you
very
well
.
But
when
I
am
in
the
fields
at
evening
and
think
of
Christ
.
I
feel
so
happy
,
and
of
such
good
will
to
all
the
rest
,
and
I
seem
to
see
heaven
quite
plain
through
the
beautiful
gray
air
where
the
stars
are
—
and
so
I
feel
when
I
am
with
you
—
that
is
all
.
Only
—
"
"
Only
what
?
"
"
Only
in
those
evenings
,
when
I
was
all
alone
,
heaven
seemed
up
there
,
where
the
stars
are
,
and
I
longed
for
wings
;
but
now
,
it
is
here
,
and
I
would
only
shut
my
wings
if
I
had
them
,
and
not
stir
.
"
He
looked
at
her
,
and
took
,
her
hands
and
kissed
them
—
but
reverently
—
as
a
believer
may
kiss
a
shrine
.
In
that
moment
to
Flamen
she
was
sacred
;
in
that
moment
he
could
no
more
have
hurt
her
with
passion
than
he
could
have
hurt
her
with
a
blow
.
It
was
an
emotion
with
him
,
and
did
not
endure
.
But
whilst
it
lasted
,
it
was
true
.
CHAPTER
XVII
.
Then
he
took
her
to
dine
at
one
of
the
wooden
cafés
under
the
trees
.
There
was
a
little
sheet
of
water
in
front
of
it
and
a
gay
garden
around
.
There
was
a
balcony
and
a
wooden
stairway
;
there
were
long
trellised
arbors
,
and
little
white
tables
,
and
great
rosebushes
like
her
own
at
home
.
They
had
an
arbor
all
to
themselves
;
a
cool
sweet-smelling
bower
of
green
,
with
a
glimpse
of
scarlet
from
the
flowers
of
some
twisting
beans
.
They
had
a
meal
,
the
like
of
which
she
had
never
seen
;
such
a
huge
melon
in
the
centre
of
it
,
and
curious
wines
,
and
coffee
or
cream
in
silver
pots
,
or
what
looked
like
silver
to
her
—
"
just
like
the
altar-vases
in
the
church
,
"
she
said
to
herself
.
"
If
only
the
Varnhart
children
were
here
!
"
she
cried
;
but
he
did
not
echo
the
wish
.
It
was
just
sunset
.
There
was
a
golden
glow
on
the
little
bit
of
water
.
On
the
other
side
of
the
garden
some
one
was
playing
a
guitar
.
Under
a
lime-tree
some
girls
were
swinging
,
crying
,
Higher
!
higher
!
at
each
toss
.
In
a
longer
avenue
of
trellised
green
,
at
a
long
table
,
there
was
a
noisy
party
of
students
and
girls
of
the
city
;
their
laughter
was
mellowed
by
distance
as
it
came
over
the
breadth
of
the
garden
,
and
they
sang
,
with
fresh
shrill
Flemish
voices
,
songs
from
an
opera
bouffe
of
La
Monnaie
.
It
was
all
pretty
,
and
gay
,
and
pleasant
.
There
was
everywhere
about
an
air
of
light-hearted
enjoyment
.
Bébée
sat
with
a
wondering
look
in
her
wide-opened
eyes
,
and
all
the
natural
instincts
of
her
youth
,
that
were
like
curled-up
fruit
buds
in
her
,
unclosed
softly
to
the
light
of
joy
.
"
Is
life
always
like
this
in
your
Rubes
'
land
?
"
she
asked
him
;
that
vague
far-away
country
of
which
she
never
asked
him
anything
more
definite
,
and
which
yet
was
so
clear
before
her
fancy
.
"
Yes
,
"
he
made
answer
to
her
.
"
Only
—
instead
of
those
leaves
,
flowers
and
pomegranates
;
and
in
lieu
of
that
tinkling
guitar
,
a
voice
whose
notes
are
esteemed
like
king
's
jewels
;
and
in
place
of
those
little
green
arbors
,
great
white
palaces
,
cool
and
still
,
with
ilex
woods
and
orange
groves
and
sapphire
seas
beyond
them
.
Would
you
like
to
come
there
,
Bébée
?
—
and
wear
laces
such
as
you
weave
,
and
hear
singing
and
laughter
all
night
long
,
and
never
work
any
more
in
the
mould
of
the
garden
,
or
spin
any
more
at
that
tiresome
wheel
,
or
go
any
more
out
in
the
wind
,
and
the
rain
,
and
the
winter
mud
to
the
market
?
"
Bébée
listened
,
leaning
her
round
elbows
on
the
table
,
and
her
warm
cheeks
on
her
hands
,
as
a
child
gravely
listens
to
a
fairy
story
.
But
the
sumptuous
picture
,
and
the
sensuous
phrase
he
had
chosen
,
passed
by
her
.
It
is
of
no
use
to
tempt
the
little
chaffinch
of
the
woods
with
a
ruby
instead
of
a
cherry
.
The
bird
is
made
to
feed
on
the
brown
berries
,
on
the
morning
dews
,
on
the
scarlet
hips
of
roses
,
and
the
blossoms
of
the
wind-tossed
pear
boughs
;
the
gem
,
though
it
be
a
monarch
's
,
will
only
strike
hard
and
tasteless
on
its
beak
.
"
I
would
like
to
see
it
all
,
"
said
Bébée
,
musingly
trying
to
follow
out
her
thoughts
.
"
But
as
for
the
garden
work
and
the
spinning
—
that
I
do
not
want
to
leave
,
because
I
have
done
it
all
my
life
;
and
I
do
not
think
I
should
care
to
wear
lace
—
it
would
tear
very
soon
;
one
would
be
afraid
to
run
;
and
do
you
see
I
know
how
it
is
made
—
all
that
lace
.
I
know
how
blind
the
eyes
get
over
it
,
and
how
the
hearts
ache
;
I
know
how
the
old
women
starve
,
and
the
little
children
cry
;
I
know
that
there
is
not
a
sprig
of
it
that
is
not
stitched
with
pain
;
the
great
ladies
do
not
think
,
I
dare
say
,
because
they
have
never
worked
at
it
or
watched
the
others
:
but
I
have
.
And
so
,
you
see
,
I
think
if
I
wore
it
I
should
feel
sad
,
and
if
a
nail
caught
on
it
I
should
feel
as
if
it
were
tearing
the
flesh
of
my
friends
.
Perhaps
I
say
it
badly
;
but
that
is
what
I
feel
.
"
"
You
do
not
say
it
badly
—
you
speak
well
,
for
you
speak
from
the
heart
,
"
he
answered
her
,
and
felt
a
tinge
of
shame
that
he
had
tempted
her
with
the
gold
and
purple
of
a
baser
world
than
any
that
she
knew
.
"
And
yet
you
want
to
see
new
lands
?
"
he
pursued
.
"
What
is
it
you
want
to
see
there
?
"
"
Ah
,
quite
other
things
than
these
,
"
cried
Bébée
,
still
leaning
her
cheeks
on
her
hands
.
"
That
dancing
and
singing
is
very
pretty
and
merry
,
but
it
is
just
as
good
when
old
Claude
fiddles
and
the
children
skip
.
This
wine
,
you
tell
me
,
is
something
very
great
;
but
fresh
milk
is
much
nicer
,
I
think
.
It
is
not
these
kind
of
things
I
want
—
I
want
to
know
all
about
the
people
who
lived
before
us
;
I
want
to
know
what
the
stars
are
,
and
what
the
wind
is
;
I
want
to
know
where
the
lark
goes
when
you
lose
him
out
of
sight
against
the
sun
;
I
want
to
know
how
the
old
artists
got
to
see
God
,
that
they
could
paint
him
and
all
his
angels
as
they
have
done
;
I
want
to
know
how
the
voices
got
into
the
bells
,
and
how
they
can
make
one
's
heart
beat
,
hanging
up
there
as
they
do
,
all
alone
among
the
jackdaws
;
I
want
to
know
what
it
is
when
I
walk
in
the
fields
in
the
morning
,
and
it
is
all
gray
and
soft
and
still
,
and
the
corn-crake
cries
in
the
wheat
,
and
the
little
mice
run
home
to
their
holes
,
that
makes
me
so
glad
and
yet
so
sorrowful
,
as
if
I
were
so
very
near
God
,
and
yet
so
all
alone
,
and
such
a
little
thing
;
because
you
see
the
mouse
she
has
her
hole
,
and
the
crake
her
own
people
,
but
I
—
"
Her
voice
faltered
a
little
and
stopped
:
she
had
never
before
thought
out
into
words
her
own
loneliness
;
from
the
long
green
arbor
the
voices
of
the
girls
and
the
students
sang
,
—
"
Ah
!
le
doux
son
d'un
baiser
tendre
!
"
Flamen
was
silent
.
The
poet
in
him
—
and
in
an
artist
there
is
always
more
or
less
of
the
poet
—
kept
him
back
from
ridicule
,
nay
,
moved
him
to
pity
and
respect
.
They
were
absurdly
simple
words
no
doubt
,
had
little
wisdom
in
them
,
and
were
quite
childish
in
their
utterance
,
and
yet
they
moved
him
curiously
as
a
man
very
base
and
callous
may
at
times
be
moved
by
the
look
in
a
dying
deer
's
eyes
,
or
by
the
sound
of
a
song
that
some
lost
love
once
sang
.
He
rose
and
drew
her
hands
away
,
and
took
her
small
face
between
his
own
hands
instead
.
"
Poor
little
Bébée
!
"
he
said
gently
,
looking
down
on
her
with
a
breath
that
was
almost
a
sigh
.
"
Poor
little
Bébée
!
—
to
envy
the
corncrake
and
the
mouse
!
"
She
was
a
little
startled
;
her
cheeks
grew
very
warm
under
his
touch
,
but
her
eyes
looked
still
into
his
without
fear
.
He
stooped
and
touched
her
forehead
with
his
lips
,
gently
and
without
passion
,
almost
reverently
;
she
grew
rose-hued
as
the
bright
bean-flowers
,
up
to
the
light
gold
ripples
of
her
hair
;
she
trembled
a
little
and
drew
back
,
but
she
was
not
alarmed
nor
yet
ashamed
;
she
was
too
simple
of
heart
to
feel
the
fear
that
is
born
of
passion
and
of
consciousness
.
It
was
as
Jeannot
kissed
his
sister
Marie
,
who
was
fifteen
years
old
and
sold
milk
for
the
Krebs
people
in
the
villages
with
a
little
green
cart
and
a
yellow
dog
—
no
more
.
And
yet
the
sunny
arbor
leaves
and
the
glimpse
of
the
blue
sky
swam
round
her
indistinctly
,
and
the
sounds
of
the
guitar
grew
dull
upon
her
ear
and
were
lost
as
in
a
rushing
hiss
of
water
,
because
of
the
great
sudden
unintelligible
happiness
that
seemed
to
bear
her
little
life
away
on
it
as
a
sea
wave
bears
a
young
child
off
its
feet
.
"
You
do
not
feel
alone
now
,
Bébée
?
"
he
whispered
to
her
.
"
No
!
"
she
answered
him
softly
under
her
breath
,
and
sat
still
,
while
all
her
body
quivered
like
a
leaf
.
No
;
how
could
she
ever
be
alone
now
that
this
sweet
,
soft
,
unutterable
touch
would
always
be
in
memory
upon
her
;
how
could
she
wish
ever
again
now
to
be
the
corn-crake
in
the
summer
corn
or
the
gray
mouse
in
the
hedge
of
hawthorn
?
At
that
moment
a
student
went
by
past
the
entrance
of
the
arbor
;
he
had
a
sash
round
his
loins
and
a
paper
feather
in
his
cap
;
he
was
playing
a
fife
and
dancing
;
he
glanced
in
as
he
went
.
"
It
is
time
to
go
home
,
Bébée
,
"
said
Flamen
.
CHAPTER
XVIII
.
So
it
came
to
pass
that
Bébée
's
day
in
the
big
forest
came
and
went
as
simply
almost
as
any
day
that
she
had
played
away
with
the
Varnhart
children
under
the
beech
shadows
of
Cambre
woods
.
And
when
he
took
her
to
her
hut
at
sunset
before
the
pilgrims
had
returned
there
was
a
great
bewildered
tumult
of
happiness
in
her
heart
,
but
there
was
no
memory
with
her
that
prevented
her
from
looking
at
the
shrine
in
the
wall
as
she
passed
it
,
and
saying
with
a
quick
gesture
of
the
cross
on
brow
and
bosom
,
—
"
Ah
,
dear
Holy
Mother
,
how
good
you
have
been
!
and
I
am
back
again
,
you
see
,
and
I
will
work
harder
than
ever
because
of
all
this
joy
that
you
have
given
me
.
"
And
she
took
another
moss-rose
and
changed
it
for
that
of
the
morning
,
which
was
faded
,
and
said
to
Flamen
.
—
"
Look
—
she
sends
you
this
.
Now
do
you
know
what
I
mean
?
One
is
more
content
when
She
is
content
.
"
He
did
not
answer
,
but
he
held
her
hands
against
him
a
moment
as
they
fastened
in
the
rose
bud
.
"
Not
a
word
to
the
pilgrims
,
Bébée
—
you
remember
?
"
"
Yes
,
I
will
remember
.
I
do
not
tell
them
every
time
I
pray
—
it
will
be
like
being
silent
about
that
—
it
will
be
no
more
wrong
than
that
.
"
But
there
was
a
touch
of
anxiety
in
the
words
;
she
was
not
quite
certain
;
she
wanted
to
be
reassured
.
Instinct
moved
her
not
to
speak
of
him
;
but
habit
made
it
seem
wrong
to
her
to
have
any
secret
from
the
people
who
had
been
about
her
from
her
birth
.
He
did
not
reassure
her
;
her
anxiety
was
pretty
to
watch
,
and
he
left
the
trouble
in
her
heart
like
a
bee
in
the
chalice
of
a
lily
.
Besides
,
the
little
wicket
gate
was
between
them
;
he
was
musing
whether
he
would
push
it
open
once
more
.
Her
fate
was
in
the
balance
,
though
she
did
not
dream
it
:
he
had
dealt
with
her
tenderly
,
honestly
,
sacredly
all
that
day
—
almost
as
much
so
as
stupid
Jeannot
could
have
done
.
He
had
been
touched
by
her
trust
in
him
,
and
by
the
unconscious
beauty
of
her
fancies
,
into
a
mood
that
was
unlike
all
his
life
and
habits
.
But
after
all
,
he
said
to
himself
—
After
all
!
—
Where
he
stood
in
the
golden
evening
he
saw
the
rosy
curled
mouth
,
the
soft
troubled
eves
,
the
little
brown
hands
that
still
tried
to
fasten
the
rosebud
,
the
young
peach-like
skin
where
the
wind
stirred
the
bodice
;
—
she
was
only
a
little
Flemish
peasant
,
this
poor
little
Bébée
,
a
little
thing
of
the
fields
and
the
streets
,
for
all
the
dreams
of
God
that
abode
with
her
.
After
all
—
soon
or
late
—
the
end
would
be
always
the
same
.
What
matter
!
She
would
weep
a
little
to-morrow
,
and
she
would
not
kneel
any
more
at
the
shrine
in
the
garden
wall
;
and
then
—
and
then
—
she
would
stay
here
and
marry
the
good
boor
Jeannot
,
just
the
same
after
a
while
;
or
drift
away
after
him
to
Paris
,
and
leave
her
two
little
wooden
shoes
,
and
her
visions
of
Christ
in
the
fields
at
evening
,
behind
her
forevermore
,
and
do
as
all
the
others
did
,
and
take
not
only
silken
stockings
but
the
Cinderella
slipper
that
is
called
Gold
,
which
brings
all
other
good
things
in
its
train
;
—
what
matter
!
He
had
meant
this
from
the
first
,
because
she
was
so
pretty
,
and
those
little
wooden
sabots
ran
so
lithely
over
the
stones
;
though
he
was
not
in
love
with
her
,
but
only
idly
stretched
his
hand
for
her
as
a
child
by
instinct
stretches
to
a
fruit
that
hangs
in
the
sun
a
little
rosier
and
a
little
nearer
than
the
rest
.
What
matter
—
he
said
to
himself
—
she
loved
him
,
poor
little
soul
,
though
she
did
not
know
it
;
and
there
would
always
be
Jeannot
glad
enough
of
a
handful
of
bright
French
gold
.
He
pushed
the
gate
gently
against
her
;
her
hands
fastened
the
rosebud
and
drew
open
the
latch
themselves
.
"
Will
you
come
in
a
little
?
"
she
said
,
with
the
happy
light
in
her
face
.
"
You
must
not
stay
long
,
because
the
flowers
must
be
watered
,
and
then
there
are
Annémie
's
patterns
—
they
must
be
done
or
she
will
have
no
money
and
so
no
food
—
but
if
you
would
come
in
for
a
little
?
And
see
,
if
you
wait
a
minute
I
will
show
you
the
roses
that
I
shall
cut
to-morrow
the
first
thing
,
and
take
down
to
St.
Guido
to
Our
Lady
's
altar
in
thank-offering
for
to-day
.
I
should
like
you
to
choose
them
—
you
yourself
—
and
if
you
would
just
touch
them
I
should
feel
as
if
you
gave
them
to
her
too
.
Will
you
?
"
She
spoke
with
the
pretty
outspoken
frankness
of
her
habitual
speech
,
just
tempered
and
broken
with
the
happy
,
timid
hesitation
,
the
curious
sense
at
once
of
closer
nearness
and
of
greater
distance
,
that
had
come
on
her
since
he
had
kissed
her
among
the
bright
beanflowers
.
He
turned
from
her
quickly
.
"
No
,
dear
,
no.
Gather
your
roses
alone
,
Bébée
;
if
I
touch
them
their
leaves
will
fall
.
"
Then
,
with
a
hurriedly
backward
glance
down
the
dusky
lane
to
see
that
none
were
looking
,
he
bent
his
head
and
kissed
her
again
quickly
and
with
a
sort
of
shame
,
and
swung
the
gate
behind
him
and
went
away
through
the
boughs
and
the
shadows
.
CHAPTER
XIX
.
Bébée
looked
after
him
wistfully
till
his
figure
was
lost
in
the
gloom
.
The
village
was
very
quiet
;
a
dog
barking
afar
off
and
a
cow
lowing
in
the
meadow
were
the
only
living
things
that
made
their
presence
heard
;
the
pilgrims
had
not
returned
.
She
leaned
on
the
gate
a
few
minutes
in
that
indistinct
,
dreamy
happiness
which
is
the
prerogative
of
innocent
love
.
"
How
wonderful
it
is
that
he
should
give
a
thought
to
me
!
"
she
said
again
and
again
to
herself
.
It
was
as
if
a
king
had
stooped
for
a
little
knot
of
daisied
grass
to
set
it
in
his
crown
where
the
great
diamonds
should
be
.
She
did
not
reason
.
She
did
not
question
.
She
did
not
look
beyond
that
hour
—
such
is
the
privilege
of
youth
.
"
How
I
will
read
!
How
I
will
learn
!
How
wise
I
will
try
to
be
;
and
how
good
,
if
I
can
!
"
she
thought
,
swaying
the
little
gate
lightly
under
her
weight
,
and
looking
with
glad
eyes
at
the
goats
as
they
frisked
with
their
young
in
the
pasture
on
the
other
side
of
the
big
trees
,
whilst
one
by
one
the
stars
came
out
,
and
an
owl
hooted
from
the
palace
woods
,
and
the
frogs
croaked
good-nights
in
the
rushes
.
Then
,
like
a
little
day
laborer
as
she
was
,
with
the
habit
of
toil
and
the
need
of
the
poor
upon
her
from
her
birth
up
,
she
shut
down
the
latch
of
the
gate
,
kissed
it
where
his
hand
had
rested
,
and
went
to
the
well
to
draw
its
nightly
draught
for
the
dry
garden
.
"
Oh
,
dear
roses
!
"
she
said
to
them
as
she
rained
the
silvery
showers
over
their
nodding
heads
.
"
Oh
,
dear
roses
!
—
tell
me
—
was
ever
anybody
so
happy
as
I
am
?
Oh
,
if
you
say
'
yes
'
I
shall
tell
you
you
lie
;
silly
flowers
that
were
only
born
yesterday
!
"
But
the
roses
shook
the
water
off
them
in
the
wind
,
and
said
,
as
she
wished
them
to
say
,
—
"
No
—
no
one
—
ever
before
,
Bébée
—
no
one
ever
before
.
"
For
roses
,
like
everything
else
upon
earth
,
only
speak
what
our
own
heart
puts
into
them
.
An
old
man
went
past
up
the
lane
;
old
Jehan
,
who
was
too
ailing
and
aged
to
make
one
of
the
pilgrimage
.
He
looked
at
the
little
quick-moving
form
,
grayish
white
in
the
starlight
,
with
the
dark
copper
vessel
balanced
on
her
head
,
going
to
and
fro
betwixt
the
well
and
the
garden
.
"
You
did
not
go
to
the
pilgrimage
,
poor
little
one
!
"
he
said
across
the
sweetbrier
hedge
.
"
Nay
,
that
was
too
bad
;
work
,
work
,
work
—
thy
pretty
back
should
not
be
bent
double
yet
.
You
want
a
holiday
,
Bébée
;
well
,
the
Fête
Dieu
is
near
.
Jeannot
shall
take
you
,
and
maybe
I
can
find
a
few
sous
for
gingerbread
and
merry-go-rounds
.
You
sit
dull
in
the
market
all
day
;
you
want
a
feast
.
"
Bébée
colored
behind
the
hedge
,
and
ran
in
and
brought
three
new-laid
eggs
that
she
had
left
in
the
flour-bin
in
the
early
morning
,
and
thrust
them
on
him
through
a
break
in
the
brier
.
It
was
the
first
time
she
had
ever
done
anything
of
which
she
might
not
speak
:
she
was
ashamed
,
and
yet
the
secret
was
so
sweet
to
her
.
"
I
am
very
happy
,
Jehan
,
thank
God
!
"
she
murmured
,
with
a
tremulous
breath
and
a
shine
in
her
eyes
that
the
old
man
's
ears
and
sight
were
too
dull
to
discern
.
"
So
was
she
"
muttered
Jehan
,
as
he
thrust
the
eggs
into
his
old
patched
blue
blouse
,
—
"
so
was
she
.
And
then
a
stumble
—
a
blow
in
the
lane
there
—
a
horse
's
kick
—
and
all
was
over
.
All
over
,
my
pretty
one
—
for
ever
and
ever
.
"
CHAPTER
XX
.
On
a
sudden
impulse
Flamen
,
going
through
the
woodland
shadows
to
the
city
,
paused
and
turned
back
;
all
his
impulses
were
quick
and
swayed
him
now
hither
,
now
thither
,
in
many
contrary
ways
.
He
knew
that
the
hour
was
come
—
that
he
must
leave
her
and
spare
her
,
as
to
himself
he
phrased
it
,
or
teach
her
the
love
words
that
the
daisies
whisper
to
women
.
And
why
not
?
—
anyway
she
would
marry
Jeannot
.
He
,
half-way
to
the
town
,
walked
back
again
and
paused
a
moment
at
the
gate
;
an
emotion
half
pitiful
,
half
cynical
,
stirred
in
him
.
Anyway
he
would
leave
her
in
a
few
days
:
Paris
had
again
opened
her
arms
to
him
;
his
old
life
awaited
him
;
women
who
claimed
him
by
imperious
,
amorous
demands
reproached
him
;
and
after
all
this
day
he
had
got
the
Gretchen
of
his
ideal
,
a
great
picture
for
the
future
of
his
fame
.
As
he
would
leave
her
anyway
so
soon
,
he
would
leave
her
unscathed
—
poor
little
field
flower
—
he
could
never
take
it
with
him
to
blossom
or
wither
in
Paris
.
His
world
would
laugh
too
utterly
if
he
made
for
himself
a
mistress
out
of
a
little
Fleming
in
two
wooden
shoes
.
Besides
—
Besides
,
something
that
was
half
weak
and
half
noble
moved
him
not
to
lead
this
child
,
in
her
trust
and
her
ignorance
,
into
ways
that
when
she
awakened
from
her
trance
would
seem
to
her
shameful
and
full
of
sorrow
.
For
he
knew
that
Bébée
was
not
as
others
are
.
He
turned
back
and
knocked
at
the
hut
door
and
opened
it
.
Bébée
was
just
beginning
to
undress
herself
;
she
had
taken
off
her
white
kerchief
and
her
wooden
shoes
;
her
pretty
shoulders
and
her
little
neck
shone
white
in
the
moon
;
her
feet
were
bare
on
the
mud
floor
.
She
started
with
a
cry
and
threw
the
handkerchief
again
on
her
shoulders
,
but
there
was
no
fear
of
him
;
only
the
unconscious
instinct
of
her
girlhood
.
He
thought
for
a
moment
that
he
would
not
go
away
until
the
morrow
—
"
Did
you
want
me
?
"
said
Bébée
softly
,
with
happy
eyes
of
surprise
and
yet
a
little
startled
,
fearing
some
evil
might
have
happened
to
him
that
he
should
have
returned
thus
.
"
No
;
I
do
not
want
you
,
dear
,
"
he
said
gently
;
no
—
he
did
not
want
her
,
poor
little
soul
;
she
wanted
him
,
but
he
—
there
were
so
many
of
these
things
in
his
life
,
and
he
liked
her
too
well
to
love
her
.
"
No
,
dear
,
I
did
not
want
you
,
"
said
Flamen
,
drawing
her
arms
about
him
,
and
feeling
her
flutter
like
a
little
bird
,
while
the
moonlight
came
in
through
the
green
leaves
and
fell
in
fanciful
patterns
on
the
floor
.
"
But
I
came
to
say
—
you
have
had
one
happy
day
.
Wholly
happy
,
have
you
not
,
poor
little
Bébée
?
"
"
Ah
,
yes
!
"
she
sighed
rather
than
said
the
answer
in
her
wondrous
gladness
;
drawn
there
close
to
him
,
with
the
softness
of
his
lips
upon
her
.
Could
he
have
come
back
only
to
ask
that
?
"
Well
,
that
is
something
.
You
will
remember
it
always
,
Bébée
?
"
he
murmured
in
his
unconscious
cruelty
.
"
I
did
not
wish
to
spoil
your
cloudless
pleasure
,
dear
—
for
you
care
for
me
a
little
,
do
you
not
?
—
so
I
came
back
to
tell
you
only
now
,
that
I
go
away
for
a
little
while
to-morrow
.
"
"
Go
away
!
"
She
trembled
in
his
arms
and
turned
cold
as
ice
;
a
great
terror
and
darkness
fell
upon
her
;
she
had
never
thought
that
he
would
ever
go
away
.
He
caressed
her
,
and
played
with
her
as
a
boy
may
with
a
bird
before
he
wrings
its
neck
.
"
You
will
come
back
?
"
He
kissed
her
:
"
Surely
.
"
"
To-morrow
?
"
"
Nay
—
not
so
soon
.
"
"
In
a
week
?
"
"
Hardly
.
"
"
In
a
month
,
then
?
"
"
Perhaps
.
"
"
Before
winter
,
anyway
?
"
He
looked
aside
from
the
beseeching
,
tearful
,
candid
eyes
,
and
kissed
her
hair
and
her
throat
,
and
said
,
"
Yes
,
dear
—
beyond
a
doubt
.
"
She
clung
to
him
,
crying
silently
;
he
wished
that
women
would
not
weep
.
"
Come
,
Bébée
,
listen
,
"
he
said
coaxingly
,
thinking
to
break
the
bitterness
to
her
.
"
This
is
not
wise
,
and
it
gives
me
pain
.
There
is
so
much
for
you
to
do
.
You
know
so
little
.
There
is
so
much
to
learn
.
I
will
leave
you
many
books
,
and
you
must
grow
quite
learned
in
my
absence
.
The
Virgin
is
all
very
well
in
her
way
,
but
she
cannot
teach
us
much
,
poor
lady
.
For
her
kingdom
is
called
