He felt weary; and grateful to rest on the stone where he was sitting, he yielded to that vague sense of oblivion which the first moment of repose brings to weary men. There is one hour of the day which may be called noiseless,—the peaceful hour of early evening; that hour had come, and he was enjoying it. He gazed, he listened. To what? To perfect tranquillity. Even savage natures have their moments of melancholy. Suddenly this tranquillity was—not exactly disturbed, but sharply defined by the voices of those who were passing below. They were the voices of women and children. It was like a joyous chime of bells heard unexpectedly in the darkness. The group from which the voices came could not be distinguished, on account of the underbrush; but it was evident that the persons were walking along the foot of the dune, in the direction of the plain and the forest. As those clear, fresh voices reached the old man where he sat absorbed in thought, they were so near that he lost not a word.
A woman's voice said,—
"Let us hurry, Flécharde. Is this the way?"
"No; it is over yonder."
And the dialogue went on between the two voices, the one high and shrill, the other low and timid.
"What is the name of this farm where we are living now?"
"Herbe-en-Pail."
"Are we still far from it?"
"Fully a quarter of an hour."
"Let us make haste and get there in time for the soup."