Simon turned round. A tall workman with a black beard and hair all curled, was staring at him good naturedly. He answered with his eyes and throat full of tears:
"They have beaten me ... because ... I ... have no ... Papa ... no Papa."
"What!" said the man smiling, "why everybody has one."
The child answered painfully amidst his spasms of grief:
"But I ... I ... I have none."
Then the workman became serious. He had recognized La Blanchotte's son, and although but recently come to the neighborhood he had a vague idea of her history.
"Well," said he, "console yourself my boy, and come with me home to your mother. They will give you ... a Papa."
And so they started on the way, the big one holding the little one by the hand, and the man smiled afresh, for he was not sorry to see this Blanchotte, who was, it was said, one of the prettiest girls of the country-side, and, perhaps, he said to himself, at the bottom of his heart, that a lass who had erred might very well err again.
They arrived in front of a little and very neat white house.
"There it is," exclaimed the child, and he cried "Mamma."