“Come, come, Brother Jacques, let us wait before we lose hope,” said the farmer’s wife, urging the honest plowman to go to bed; “perhaps she will be back to-morrow.”
“Yes,” said Guillot, “and we will have a famous soup to celebrate, and we will drink some of last year’s wine, which is beginning to be just right.”
Sans-Souci dared not say anything; he was afraid of becoming confused and betraying himself; his comrade’s glances closed his mouth.
“I will wait a few days,” said Jacques; “but if she doesn’t come back, then I will go to find her, even if I have to go to the end of the world.”
They parted for the night sadly enough. Several days passed, and Adeline did not return. All pleasure and peace of mind had vanished from the farm; Jacques neglected his work, Guillot his fields, the farmer’s wife her household duties; Sans-Souci neglected the farmer’s wife, and everybody was unhappy. No more ballads, merry meals, amusing stories, or descriptions of battles. Sans-Souci was losing hope of Adeline’s return; he bitterly repented having told her of her husband, and he hovered about Jacques, but dared not confess the truth to him.
On the eighth day Jacques announced that he was going to start out in search of his sister. Sans-Souci decided then to speak; he took his comrade aside and began by tearing out a handful of hair, and heaving a profound sigh.
“What is the meaning of all this groaning?” asked Jacques; “speak, and stop your nonsense.”
“Look you, comrade, I am an infernal brute! I am corked up like the barrel of Guillot’s gun, and yet I did everything for the best.”
“What do you mean?”
“I am the cause of your dear sister’s leaving the farm.”