Germain did not reply.  He hid his face in his hands and it was impossible for little Marie to tell whether he was crying or sulking or asleep.  She was a little disturbed to see him so depressed, and to be unable to divine what was going on in his mind; but she dared say no more to him, and as she was too much astonished by what had taken place to have any desire to go to sleep again, she waited impatiently for daybreak, continuing to keep up the fire and watching the child, whom Germain seemed to have forgotten.  Germain, meanwhile, was not asleep; he was not reflecting on his lot, nor was he devising any bold stroke, or any plan of seduction.  He was suffering keenly, he had a mountain of ennui upon his heart.  He wished he were dead.  Everything seemed to be turning out badly for him, and if he could have wept, he would not have done it by halves.  But there was a little anger with himself mingled with his suffering, and he was suffocating, unable and unwilling to complain.

When day broke and the noise in the fields announced the fact to Germain, he took his hands from his face and rose.  He saw that little Marie had not slept, either, but he could think of nothing to say to her to show his solicitude.  He was utterly discouraged.  He concealed Grise’s saddle in the bushes once more, took his bag over his shoulder, and said, taking his son’s hand: 

“Now, Marie, we’ll try and finish our journey.  Do you want me to take you to Ormeaux?”

“We will go out of the woods together,” she replied, “and when we know where we are, we will go our separate ways.”

Germain said nothing.  He was wounded because the girl did not ask him to escort her to Ormeaux, and he did not realize that he had made the offer in a tone that seemed to challenge a refusal.

A wood-cutter, whom they met within two hundred paces, pointed out the path they must take, and told them that after crossing the great meadow they had only to go, in the one case straight ahead, in the other to the left, to reach their respective destinations, which, by the way, were so near together that the houses at Fourche could be distinctly seen from the farm of Ormeaux, and vice versa.

When they had thanked the wood-cutter and passed on, he called them back to ask if they had not lost a horse.

“I found a fine gray mare in my yard,” he said, “where she may have gone to escape the wolf.  My dogs barked all night long, and at daybreak I saw the beast under my shed; she’s there still.  Go and look at her, and if you know her, take her.”

Germain, having described Grise and being convinced that it was really she, started back to get his saddle.  Little Marie thereupon offered to take the child to Ormeaux, where he could come and get him after he had paid his respects at Fourche.

“He isn’t very clean after the night we have passed,” she said.  “I will brush his clothes, wash his pretty little face, and comb his hair, and when he’s all spick and span, you can present him to your new family.”