Thereupon Germaine readjusted her spectacles, drew from the bottom of her big work-bag a leather whip with several thongs, and Jeannette, more dead than alive with anger and shame, received in full view the well-deserved punishment.
She neither cried, nor wept, nor made any protestation, not even an attempt to defend herself; but she did not ask pardon either, and sat straight up on her bench, whiter than Mother Germaine's cap. It was the only day they had ever seen her quiet and good.
Towards evening, Jeannet, as usual, took his post where he could meet her, that they might return home together; but great was his surprise to see the little thing advance with measured steps, instead of running and bounding according to her custom. What astonished him still further was that she neither spoke nor laughed. Her little face was all changed; but whether from grief or anger he could not discover. It ended by making him feel very anxious, as he feared she was ill.
"What is the matter?" he asked gently. "Surely, Jeannette, something troubles you; for this is the first time in my life I have ever seen you sad."
The child turned away her head, and pretended to look at the trees.
"You will not answer me," continued Jean-Louis; "and yet I only question you from pure love, not from curiosity. When one is troubled, it is a relief to speak to a friend. Am I not strong enough to defend you by tongue and arm, in case you need it?"
"Nothing is the matter," replied Jeannette. "What do you fancy ails me? Let us hurry, it is growing late; the crows are beginning to flutter around the steeple."
"I am not thinking now about the crows, nor you either, Jeannette," said he, taking in his own her little, trembling hand; "and as for going faster, that is not possible; we are already walking at such a rate we can scarcely breathe."
Jeanne stopped short, and quickly drew away her hand.
"Then, don't go any further," cried she in a rebellious tone.