Marie-Rose, every morning, in her short petticoat, with her clean fichu crossed over her bosom, went into the garden with her basket and the old earthy knife, to gather the first vegetables. She came and went, lifting up the bordering of box that edged the little alleys, and tied up the branches of the rose bushes that had fallen away from their stakes. I saw in the distance Jean Merlin, advancing at a swift pace through the meadow path, skirting the old willows; I heard him call out:
"Marie-Rose!"
She instantly rose and hastened to meet him. They kissed each other and returned laughing, arm in arm. I was pleased and said to myself:
"They love each other dearly. They are good children."
Old grandmother Anne, who was nearly always shut up in her own room, was looking too, leaning out of the little window surrounded with ivy, with her eyelids puckered up, her old face wrinkled with satisfaction; she called me:
"Frederick!"
"What is it, grandmother?"
"I am growing young as at the time of my own marriage. It was the year of the comet in which they made such good wine before the great Russian winter; you have heard them talk of that, Frederick; all our soldiers were frozen."
"Yes, grandmother."
She liked to recall those old stories, and we did not think that we should soon see the same things.