the imitation of city luxury, which seemed to him an offence against the dignity of country manners; the time wasted in indolent, foolish conversation, that household so different from his own, and, above all, the profound discomfort that the husbandman feels when he lays aside his laborious habits; all the ennui and annoyance he had undergone within the last few hours—­made Germain long to be once more with his child and his little neighbor.  Even if he had not been in love with the latter, he would have sought her none the less for distraction, and to restore his mind to its accustomed channels.

But he looked in vain in the neighboring fields, he saw neither little Marie nor little Pierre; and yet it was the time when the shepherds are in the fields.  There was a large flock in a pasture; he asked a young boy who was tending them if the sheep belonged to the farm of Ormeaux.

“Yes,” said the child.

“Are you the shepherd? do boys tend woolly beasts for the farmers in your neighborhood?”

“No.  I’m tending ’em to-day because the shepherdess has gone away:  she was sick.”

“But haven’t you a new shepherdess who came this morning?”

“Oh! yes! she’s gone, too, already.”

“What! gone? didn’t she have a child with her?”

“Yes, a little boy; he cried.  They both went away after they’d been here two hours.”

“Where did they go?”

“Where they came from, I suppose.  I didn’t ask ’em.”

“But what did they go away for?” said Germain, with increasing anxiety.

“Why, how do I know?”

“Didn’t they agree about wages? but that must have been agreed on beforehand.”

“I can’t tell you anything about it.  I saw them go in and come out, that’s all.”

Germain went on to the farm and questioned the farm-hands.  No one could explain what had happened; but all agreed that, after talking with the farmer, the girl had gone away without saying a word, taking with her the child, who was weeping.

“Did they ill-treat my son?” cried Germain, his eyes flashing fire.

“He was your son, was he?  How did he come to be with that girl?  Where are you from, and what’s your name?”

Germain, seeing that his questions were answered by other questions, according to the custom of the country, stamped his foot impatiently, and asked to speak with the master.

The master was not there:  he was not in the habit of staying the whole day when he came to the farm.  He had mounted his horse, and ridden off to some other of his farms.

“But surely you can find out the reason of that young girl’s going away?” said Germain, assailed by keen anxiety.

The farm-hand exchanged a strange smile with his wife, then replied that he knew nothing about it, that it did not concern him.  All that Germain could learn was that the girl and the child had gone in the direction of Fourche.  He hurried to Fourche:  the widow and her lovers had not returned, nor had Pere Leonard.  The servant told him that a young girl and a child had come there and inquired for him, but that she, not knowing them, thought it best not to admit them and advised them to go to Mers.