"Take my arm, sir," cried one of the woodcutters. "That wooden leg of yours is not very safe on the ice."
"Am I not here?" asked Jacques, in a vexed voice, "can I not look out for my father?"
Simon laughed.
"But why," he asked, "have you not asked for wine at the inn?"
"Because we heard that the little girl was ill, sir—"
"Oh! it is nothing of any consequence—there she is, as rosy and smiling as ever."
When Simon's voice was heard, the inn awoke from its silence. A woman appeared on the threshold holding in her arms a pretty little creature about six years old.
The mother was a simple peasant woman, wearing a peasant's dress. She began to fill glasses for these woodcutters, who addressed her with a cordial good morning.
At this moment the door was hastily opened, and a man appeared on the threshold. The woodcutters uttered a cry of surprise. The man was a soldier, who leaned against the wall and did not speak.