“Ah! you see,” concluded Mathieu.  “It is understood, is it not?  I shall rely on your good behavior.”

Thereupon they went their way, scouring the fields as far as the road to Mareuil.  Coveys of young partridges, still weak on the wing, started up both to the right and to the left.  The shooting would be good.  Then as the father and the son turned homeward, slackening their pace, a long spell of silence fell between them.  They were both reflecting.

“I don’t wish that there should be any misunderstanding between us,” Mathieu suddenly resumed; “you must not imagine that I shall prevent you from marrying according to your tastes and that I shall require you to take an heiress.  Our poor Blaise married a portionless girl.  And it was the same with Denis; besides which I gave your sister, Claire, in marriage to Frederic, who was simply one of our farm hands.  So I don’t look down on Therese.  On the contrary, I think her charming.  She’s one of the prettiest girls of the district—­not tall, certainly, but so alert and determined, with her little pink face shining under such a wild crop of fair hair, that one might think her powdered with all the flour in the mill.”

“Yes, isn’t that so, father?” interrupted Gregoire enthusiastically.  “And if you only knew how affectionate and courageous she is!  She’s worth a man any day.  It’s wrong of them to smack her, for she will never put up with it.  Whenever she sets her mind on anything she’s bound to do it, and it isn’t I who can prevent her.”

Absorbed in some reflections of his own, Mathieu scarcely heard his son.

“No, no,” he resumed; “I certainly don’t look down on their mill.  If it were not for Lepailleur’s stupid obstinacy he would be drawing a fortune from that mill nowadays.  Since corn-growing has again been taken up all over the district, thanks to our victory, he might have got a good pile of crowns together if he had simply changed the old mechanism of his wheel which he leaves rotting under the moss.  And better still, I should like to see a good engine there, and a bit of a light railway line connecting the mill with Janville station.”

In this fashion he continued explaining his ideas while Gregoire listened, again quite lively and taking things in a jesting way.

“Well, father,” the young man ended by saying, “as you wish that I should have a calling, it’s settled.  If I marry Therese, I’ll be a miller.”

Mathieu protested in surprise:  “No, no, I was merely talking.  And besides, you have promised me, my lad, that you will be reasonable.  So once again, for the sake of the peace and quietness of all of us, leave Therese alone, for we can only expect to reap worry with the Lepailleurs.”

The conversation ceased and they returned to the farm.  That evening, however, the father told the mother of the young man’s confession, and she, who already entertained various misgivings, felt more anxious than ever.  Still a month went by without anything serious happening.