But at last he took possession of the parasol, to hold it himself.
“It is you who do not hold it right; and then it tires you. Besides, we are almost there now.”
In the parched plain they could already perceive an island of verdure, an enormous clump of trees. This was La Séguiranne, the farm on which Sophie had grown up in the house of her Aunt Dieudonné, the wife of the cross old man. Wherever there was a spring, wherever there was a rivulet, this ardent soil broke out in rich vegetation; and then there were walks bordered by trees, whose luxuriant foliage afforded a delightful coolness and shade. Plane trees, chestnut trees, and young elms grew vigorously. They entered an avenue of magnificent green oaks.
As they approached the farm, a girl who was making hay in the meadow dropped her fork and ran toward them. It was Sophie, who had recognized the doctor and the young lady, as she called Clotilde. She adored them, but she stood looking at them in confusion, unable to express the glad greeting with which her heart overflowed. She resembled her brother Valentin; she had his small stature, his prominent cheek bones, his pale hair; but in the country, far from the contagion of the paternal environment, she had, it seemed, gained flesh; acquired with her robust limbs a firm step; her cheeks had filled out, her hair had grown luxuriant. And she had fine eyes, which shone with health and gratitude. Her Aunt Dieudonné, who was making hay with her, had come toward them also, crying from afar jestingly, with something of Provençal rudeness:
“Ah, M. Pascal, we have no need of you here! There is no one sick!”
The doctor, who had simply come in search of this fine spectacle of health, answered in the same tone:
“I hope so, indeed. But that does not prevent this little girl here from owing you and me a fine taper!”
“Well, that is the pure truth! And she knows it, M. Pascal. There is not a day that she does not say that but for you she would be at this time like her brother Valentin.”
“Bah! We will save him, too. He is getting better, Valentin is. I have just been to see him.”
Sophie seized the doctor’s hands; large tears stood in her eyes, and she could only stammer: