He watched the others eating, as he cut himself a piece of bread from time to time and carried it lazily to his mouth, masticating it slowly. He thought of Martine. “She is a fine girl, all the same.” And to think that he had not noticed it before, and that it came to him, just like that, all at once, and with such force that he could not eat.
He did not touch the stew. His mother said:
“Come, Benoist, try and eat a little; it is loin of mutton, it will do you good. When one has no appetite, they should force themselves to eat.”
He swallowed a few morsels, then, pushing away his plate, said:
“No. I can't go that, positively.”
When they rose from table he walked round the farm, telling the farm hand he might go home and that he would drive up the animals as he passed by them.
The country was deserted, as it was the day of rest. Here and there in a field of clover cows were moving along heavily, with full bellies, chewing their cud under a blazing sun. Unharnessed plows were standing at the end of a furrow; and the upturned earth ready for the seed showed broad brown patches of stubble of wheat and oats that had lately been harvested.
A rather dry autumn wind blew across the plain, promising a cool evening after the sun had set. Benoist sat down on a ditch, placed his hat on his knees as if he needed to cool off his head, and said aloud in the stillness of the country: “If you want a fine girl, she is a fine girl.”
He thought of it again at night, in his bed, and in the morning when he awoke.
He was not sad, he was not discontented, he could not have told what ailed him. It was something that had hold of him, something fastened in his mind, an idea that would not leave him and that produced a sort of tickling sensation in his heart.