The cool night air did more to bring Petit-Pierre to life than all Bonneville's lamentations; at the end of a few minutes he opened his eyes and sneezed.
Bonneville, who, in his paroxysm of grief, swore not to survive the being whose death he thought he had caused, gave a cry of joy and fell on his knees by Petit-Pierre, who was now sufficiently recovered to understand his last words.
"Bonneville," said Petit-Pierre, "you didn't say 'God bless you!' when I sneezed, and now I shall have a cold in my head."
"Living! living! living!" cried Bonneville, as exuberant in his joy as he was in his grief.
"Yes, living enough, thanks to you. If you were any other than you are, I would swear to you never to forget it."
"You are soaked!"
"Yes, my shoes especially, Bonneville. The water keeps running down, running down in a most disagreeable manner."
"And no fire! no means to make one!"
"Pooh! we shall get warm in walking. I speak in the plural, for you must be as wet as I am; in fact, it's your third bath,--one was of mud."
"Oh, don't think of me! Can you walk?"