"You know, it seems to me that he has . . . that he has . . . a sly look."
And he looks at me anxious to know what I think of it, conceiving already a grave misgiving about the future.
Nobody in the world but my dear old Yves would have felt concern on such ludicrous grounds. I shake little Pierre, who thereupon becomes wide awake and bursts out laughing, his fine big eyes well opened between their long lashes. Yves is reassured and finds that in fact he does not look at all sly.
When his mother strips him, he looks like a classic baby, like the Greek statues of Cupid.
[CHAPTER LXX]
Toulven, 30th April.
The cottage of the old Keremenens, as darkness is falling on an evening of April. Our little party has just returned from a walk: Yves, Marie, Anne, little Corentine "golden locks," and "little black man" Pierre.
Four candles are burning in the cottage (three would be unlucky).
On an old table of massive oak, polished by the years, there are paper, pens and sand. Benches have been placed round. Very solemn things are about to happen.
We put down our harvest of herbs and flowers, which shed a perfume of April in the old cottage, and take our places.