She looked at him, and, moved by the pathos underlying the words, could not, for the moment, reply.
“I once had a home in this village,” he added. “It stood over there, in the bare spot near the beech tree.” His eyes rested on the spot for a moment, then he turned back to the hut.
“M’sieu,” she said shyly.
The little heap of flowers lay where she had dropped them; and, taking them up, she arranged them hastily and held them out. “Won’t you take them?”
He looked at her, a little surprised, then held out his hand.
“Why,––thank you. I don’t know what I can do with them.”
They walked back together.
“You must wear some of the daisies, Mademoiselle. They will look well.”
She looked down at her torn, stained dress, 162 and laughed softly; but took the white cluster he gave her, and thrust the stems through a tattered bit of lace on her breast.
Menard was plainly relieved by the incident. He had been worn near to despair, facing a difficulty which seemed every moment farther from a solution; and now he turned to her fresh, light mood as to a refuge.