“I will,” she said, and wiping her eyes, she began to walk again with the uncertain step of an elderly woman.
A little farther on the road passed beneath a clump of trees, which hid a few houses, and they could distinguish the vibrating and regular blows of a blacksmith's hammer on the anvil; and presently they saw a wagon standing on the right side of the road in front of a low cottage, and two men shoeing a horse under a shed.
Monsieur d'Apreval went up to them.
“Where is Pierre Benedict's farm?” he asked.
“Take the road to the left, close to the inn, and then go straight on; it is the third house past Poret's. There is a small spruce fir close to the gate; you cannot make a mistake.”
They turned to the left. She was walking very slowly now, her legs threatened to give way, and her heart was beating so violently that she felt as if she should suffocate, while at every step she murmured, as if in prayer:
“Oh! Heaven! Heaven!”
Monsieur d'Apreval, who was also nervous and rather pale, said to her somewhat gruffly:
“If you cannot manage to control your feelings, you will betray yourself at once. Do try and restrain yourself.”
“How can I?” she replied. “My child! When I think that I am going to see my child.”