The mayor was a sensible man. He rose from his chair, smiled, and
said: "Go in peace, madame, and when you again visit our forests, be
more discreet."
[MARTINE]
It came to him one Sunday after mass. He was walking home from church
along the by-road that led to his house when he saw ahead of him
Martine, who was also going home.
Her father walked beside his daughter with the important gait of a
rich farmer. Discarding the smock, he wore a short coat of gray cloth
and on his head a round-topped hat with wide brim.
She, laced up in a corset which she wore only once a week, walked
along erect, with her squeezed-in waist, her broad shoulders and
prominent hips, swinging herself a little. She wore a hat trimmed with
flowers, made by a milliner at Yvetot, and displayed the back of her
full, round, supple neck, reddened by the sun and air, on which
fluttered little stray locks of hair.
Benoist saw only her back; but he knew well the face he loved,
without, however, having ever noticed it more closely than he did now.
Suddenly he said: "Nom d'un nom, she is a fine girl, all the same,
that Martine." He watched her as she walked, admiring her hastily,
feeling a desire taking possession of him. He did not long to see her
face again, no. He kept gazing at her figure, repeating to himself:
"Nom d'un nom, she is a fine girl."
Martine turned to the right to enter "La Martinière," the farm of her
father, Jean Martin, and she cast a glance behind her as she turned
round. She saw Benoist, who looked to her very comical. She called
out: "Good-morning, Benoist." He replied: "Good-morning, Martine;
good-morning, mait' Martin," and went on his way.
When he reached home the soup was on the table. He sat down opposite
his mother beside the farm hand and the hired man, while the maid
servant went to draw some cider.