Jeanne Ragaud was drawing water from the well; but, instead of carrying off the buckets already filled, she deposited them on the ground, and, resting her elbows on the curbstone of the well, covered her face with her hands in the attitude of a person completely overcome.
He knew she was weeping, and certainly her poor heart must have been full of sorrow that she should give way to such silent grief. The good curé could no longer restrain himself; he advanced gently behind her, and, when quite near, touched her on the shoulder, just as he had done in former days, when he wished to surprise her in some school-girl's trick.
Jeanne turned around, and he saw her pretty face bathed in tears.
“Oh! oh!” said the kind pastor, smiling, “what are you doing, my daughter? I wager you are the only one who is not rejoicing to-day in the bright sunshine that the good God gives us.”
“Father,” said the little thing, who always thus addressed our curé when they were alone, “it is perhaps very wrong, but it is precisely all this joy I see around me that breaks my heart. When I reached the well, I thought how often Jean-Louis had come to this very place to draw water for us, and how displeased he was when my mother wished to do it herself. Poor Jeannet! he was so gentle and kind! Oh! I am sure he is unhappy away from home.”
“That is not doubtful,” replied the curé; “but perhaps one day we will see him again.”
“I begin to despair of it,” said she. “He left heart-broken, and perhaps now he detests me.”
“Perhaps? Perhaps, my daughter, can mean yes as well as no; why should it not be no?”
“Ah! if I only knew!” said she.
“Well, what would you do?”