“Well, if I am too stupid to have fifty, I have one, at least, which has not left me for the past hour.”
“And I shall tell it to you as well as I told you those you thought of before.”
“Yes, do tell me if you know, Marie. Tell me yourself. I shall be glad to hear.”
“An hour ago,” she answered, “your idea was to eat—and now it is to sleep.”
“Marie, I am only an ox-driver, but, upon my word, you take me for an ox. You are very perverse, and it is easy to see that you do not care to talk to me, so go to sleep. That will be better than to pick flaws in a man who is out of sorts.”
“If you wish to talk, let’s talk,” said the girl, half reclining near the child and resting her head against the saddle. “You torment yourself, Germain, and you do not show much courage for a man. What wouldn’t I say if I didn’t do my best to fight my own troubles?”
“Yes, that’s very true, and that’s just what I am thinking of, my poor child. You are going to live, away from your friends, in a horrid country full of moors and fens, where you will catch the autumn fevers. Sheep do not pay well there, and this is always discouraging for a shepherdess if she means well. Then you will be surrounded by strangers who may not be kind to you and will not know how much you are worth. It makes me more sorry than I can tell you, and I have a great desire to take you home to your mother instead of going on to Fourche.”
“You talk very kindly, but there is no reason for your misgivings, my poor Germain. You ought not to lose heart on your friend’s account, and instead of showing me the dark side of my lot, you should show me the bright side, as you did after lunch at Rebec’s.”
“What can I do? That’s the way it appeared to me then, and now my ideas are changed. It is best for you to take a husband.”
“That cannot be, Germain, and as it is out of the question, I think no more about it.”