“Madame will soon return to Paris, no doubt; it is late in the season, October is almost here.”
“No, I do not expect to leave the country yet; I may pass the winter here.”
“This is strange,” thought Jacques; “she remains in the country and her husband in the city; can it be that they do not live happily together?—In that case,” he said aloud, “I hope that we shall have the pleasure of seeing madame at the farm sometimes.”
“Yes, I look forward with pleasure to going there again. You are a relative of the farmer, I suppose?”
“No, madame, my comrade is their cousin, but I am only an old soldier, without family or acquaintances, whom they have been good enough to supply with work.”
“I am sure that they congratulate themselves upon it every day.—You are still young, you cannot have served very long?”
“I beg your pardon, I enlisted very early.”
“And on your return from the army you had no mother, no sister, to take care of you and to make you forget the fatigues of war?”
“No, madame. I have only one relative, and he treated me with so little affection! I am proud, I have a keen sense of honor, and I rejected assistance which was not offered by the heart, and which would have humiliated me.”
“That must have been some distant relative?”