She faced the crowd again, with her hands on her bosom.
“Am I stripping myself that justice may be done to the man I love? Why do I love him so much? Because he is not so stupid as most men, because he did not ask me to give him the thing that most men ask for, because I could trust him. He helped to build my house; he helped to make my home; he protected me. We are lovers, yes, but he waited, he held back. Do we love men who are generous and honourable and masters of their own bodies? Or do we worship the animal?—the beast that seizes love by the throat and makes it nothing but a carcass? I stand by the man who has given me the labour of his hands, the man whom I love because he does good things. Have not the war and these ruins made us long for a life that looks happily at children and trees and gardens—the clean linen hanging in the orchard—the steady eyes of the quiet fellow who loves you and works for you? Envy and violence are hateful to me. I ask to be left alone with the man who healed the wounds of my home with the labour of his hands.”
She stood in silence, holding out her hands to these peasants, and instantly the crowd rose to her with passionate enthusiasm. She had won them. She had given her heart into their hands, and they offered her their human and simple blessing in return. Philipon the smith was the first to give expression to the emotion that stirred them all. He came to her behind the row of chairs and kissed Manon on the forehead.
“You have shown us your heart, and we see how good it is.”
The women were more deeply moved than the men, for only women know what a good man means to a woman. They came crowding round Manon, holding out their hands to her. Old Mère Vitry had tears in her eyes.
“Brave words, my child.”
“We believe it all—every word.”
“If he is English, what does it matter? He is a good man.”
Bibi was there in the midst of them, surrounded by petticoats, furiously silent. His teeth showed in his black beard.
“These cows,” he said.