“Ride on to the village; I’ll join you there.”
“All right, I’ll go on to the village,” said Bertrand to himself, letting his horse walk. “Shall I go to the inn? Or shall I inquire for the little milkmaid? No, I don’t want milk for my horse, and the girl probably wouldn’t be able to feed us both.—A very pretty village, but I don’t see any signs of an inn.”
Bertrand allowed his horse to go where he chose; he passed several hovels of only one story, not caring to halt at such wretched abodes; but he soon found himself beside a rippling stream bordered by willow trees, with a pretty cottage on the opposite side. Bertrand crossed the brook and stopped in front of the yard. A small boy was playing with a goat; a little farther on a girl was churning butter, and at the rear was an elderly woman arranging fruit in a basket.
From his saddle Bertrand could overlook the whole yard, and he watched that rustic picture. Suddenly the girl raised her eyes, saw the horseman, and rushed toward him, exclaiming:
“I can’t be mistaken—it’s Monsieur Bertrand.”
And as she spoke, the girl’s eyes searched the road for another horseman.
Bertrand recognized Denise and bestowed an affable nod upon her, saying:
“By the great Turenne, I couldn’t have stopped at a better time. Bébelle has a most amazing scent!”
“Pray come in, Monsieur Bertrand,” said Denise, her eyes still fixed on the road.
“You’re very kind, mamzelle, but I’m looking for an inn, where my horse and I can get something to eat.”