“You little witch, you are making fun of me! Would not you drink some wine if you had it?”
“I? At Mother Rebec’s, with you tonight, I drank some for the second time in my life. But if you are very good, I shall give you a bottle almost full, and excellent too.”
“What? Marie, I verily believe you are a witch!”
“Were you not foolish enough to ask for two bottles of wine at the inn? You and your boy drank one, and the other you set before me. I hardly drank three drops, yet you paid for both without looking.”
“What then?”
“Why, I put the full one in my basket, because I thought that you or your child would be thirsty on the journey. And here it is.”
“You are the most thoughtful girl I have ever met. Although the poor child was crying when we left the inn, that did not prevent her from thinking of others more than of herself. Little Marie, the man who marries you will be no fool.”
“I hope not, for I am not fond of fools. Come, eat up your partridges; they are done to a turn; and for want of bread, you must be satisfied with chestnuts.”
“Where the deuce did you find chestnuts, too?”
“It is extraordinary! All along the road I picked them off the branches as we went along, and filled my pockets.”
“And are they cooked, too?”
“Where would my wits have been had I not had sense enough to put the chestnuts in the fire as soon as it was lighted? That is the way we always do in the fields.”
“So we are going to take supper together, little Marie. I want to drink your health and wish you a good husband, just the sort of a man that will suit you. Tell me what kind you want.”
“I should find that very difficult, Germain, for I have not thought about it yet.”
“What, not at all? Never?” said Germain, as he began to eat with a laborer’s appetite, yet stopping to cut off the more tender morsels for his companion, who persisted in refusing them and contented herself with a few chestnuts.
“Tell me, little Marie,” he went on, seeing that she had no intention of answering him, “have you never thought of marrying? Yet you are old enough?”
“Perhaps,” she said, “but I am too poor. I need at least a hundred crowns to marry, and I must work five or six years to scrape them together.”
“Poor girl, I wish Father Maurice were willing to give me a hundred crowns to make you a present of.”
“Thank you kindly, Germain. What do you suppose people would say of me?”
“What do you wish them to say of you? They know very well that I am too old to marry you. They would never believe that I—that you—”
“Look, Germain, your child is waking up,” said little Marie.
VIII
The Evening Prayer
Petit-Pierre had raised his head and was looking about him with a thoughtful air.
“Oh, that is the way he always does, whenever he hears the sound of eating,” said Germain. “The explosion of a cannon would not rouse him, but if you work your jaws near him, he opens his eyes at once.”
“You must have been just like him at his age,” said little Marie, with a sly smile. “See! my Petit-Pierre, you are looking for your canopy. Tonight it is made all of green, my child; but your father eats his supper none the less. Do you wish to sup with him? I have not eaten your share; I thought that you might claim it.”
“Marie, I wish you to eat,” cried the husbandman; “I shall not touch another morsel. I am a greedy glutton. You are depriving yourself for our sake. It is not fair. I am ashamed. It takes away all my appetite. I will not have my son eat his supper unless you take some too.”
“Leave us alone,” said little Marie; “you have not the key to our appetites. Mine is tight shut today, but your Pierre’s is as wide open as a little wolfs. Just see how he seizes his food. He will be a strong workman too, some day!”
In truth, Petit-Pierre showed very soon whose son he was, and though scarcely awake and wholly at a loss to know where he was and how he had come there, he began to eat ravenously. As soon as his hunger was appeased, feeling excited as children do who break loose from their wonted habits, he had more wit, more curiosity, and more good sense than usual. He made them explain to him where he was, and when he found that he was in the midst of a forest, he grew a little frightened.
“Are there wicked beasts in this forest?” he demanded of his father.
“No, none at all. Don’t be afraid.”
“Then you told a story when you said that if I went with you into the great forest, the wolves would carry me off.”
“Just see this logician,” said Germain, embarrassed.
“He is right,” replied little Marie. “That is what you told him. He has a good memory, and has not forgotten. But, little Pierre, you must learn that your father never tells a story. We passed through the big forest whilst you were sleeping, and now we are in the small forest where there are no wicked beasts.”
“Is the little forest very far away from the big one?”
“Far enough; besides, the wolves never go out of the big forest. And then, if some of them should come here, your father would kill them.”
“And you too, little Marie?”
“Yes, we, too, for you would help also, my Pierre. You are not frightened, are you? You would beat them soundly?”
“Yes, indeed, I would,” said the child, proudly, as he struck a heroic attitude; “we would kill them.”
“There is nobody like you for talking to children and for making them listen to reason,” said Germain to little Marie. “To be sure, it
