“Wait a moment,” said Marianne, “he will come back to me.  Gervais!  Gervais!”

And after a little hesitation, a false start, the child did indeed return, taking the four steps afresh, with arms extended and beating the air as if they were balancing-poles.

“Gervais!  Gervais!” called Mathieu in his turn.  And the child went back to him; and again and again did they want him to repeat the journey, amid their mirthful cries, so pretty and so funny did they find him.

Then, seeing that the four other children began playing rather roughly with him in their enthusiasm, Marianne carried him away.  And once more, on the same spot, on the young grass, did she give him the breast.  And again did the stream of milk trickle forth.

Close by that spot, skirting the new field, there passed a crossroad, in rather bad condition, leading to a neighboring village.  And on this road a cart suddenly came into sight, jolting amid the ruts, and driven by a peasant—­who was so absorbed in his contemplation of the land which Mathieu had cleared, that he would have let his horse climb upon a heap of stones had not a woman who accompanied him abruptly pulled the reins.  The horse then stopped, and the man in a jeering voice called out:  “So this, then, is your work, Monsieur Froment?”

Mathieu and Marianne thereupon recognized the Lepailleurs, the people of the mill.  They were well aware that folks laughed at Janville over the folly of their attempt—­that mad idea of growing wheat among the marshes of the plateau.  Lepailleur, in particular, distinguished himself by the violent raillery he levelled at this Parisian, a gentleman born, with a good berth, who was so stupid as to make himself a peasant, and fling what money he had to that rascally earth, which would assuredly swallow him and his children and his money all together, without yielding even enough wheat to keep them in bread.  And thus the sight of the field had stupefied him.  It was a long while since he had passed that way, and he had never thought that the seed would sprout so thickly, for he had repeated a hundred times that nothing would germinate, so rotten was all the land.  Although he almost choked with covert anger at seeing his predictions thus falsified, he was unwilling to admit his error, and put on an air of ironical doubt.

“So you think it will grow, eh?  Well, one can’t say that it hasn’t come up.  Only one must see if it can stand and ripen.”  And as Mathieu quietly smiled with hope and confidence, he added, striving to poison his joy:  “Ah! when you know the earth you’ll find what a hussy she is.  I’ve seen plenty of crops coming on magnificently, and then a storm, a gust of wind, a mere trifle, has reduced them to nothing!  But you are young at the trade as yet; you’ll get your experience in misfortune.”

His wife, who nodded approval on hearing him talk so finely, then addressed herself to Marianne:  “Oh! my man doesn’t say that to discourage you, madame.  But the land you know, is just like children.  There are some who live and some who die; some who give one pleasure, and others who kill one with grief.  But, all considered, one always bestows more on them than one gets back, and in the end one finds oneself duped.  You’ll see, you’ll see.”