David rose, and shook off his unrest and the wild mood that had tempted him.  He set his face steadfastly back along the road he had come.  By the time he had retravelled the road to Vernoy, his desire to rove was gone.  He passed the sheepfold, and the sheep scurried, with a drumming flutter, at his late footsteps, warming his heart by the homely sound.  He crept without noise into his little room and lay there, thankful that his feet had escaped the distress of new roads that night.

How well he knew woman’s heart!  The next evening Yvonne was at the well in the road where the young congregated in order that the cure might have business.  The corner of her eye was engaged in a search for David, albeit her set mouth seemed unrelenting.  He saw the look; braved the mouth, drew from it a recantation and, later, a kiss as they walked homeward together.

Three months afterwards they were married.  David’s father was shrewd and prosperous.  He gave them a wedding that was heard of three leagues away.  Both the young people were favourites in the village.  There was a procession in the streets, a dance on the green; they had the marionettes and a tumbler out from Dreux to delight the guests.

Then a year, and David’s father died.  The sheep and the cottage descended to him.  He already had the seemliest wife in the village.  Yvonne’s milk pails and her brass kettles were bright—­ouf! they blinded you in the sun when you passed that way.  But you must keep your eyes upon her yard, for her flower beds were so neat and gay they restored to you your sight.  And you might hear her sing, aye, as far as the double chestnut tree above Pere Gruneau’s blacksmith forge.

But a day came when David drew out paper from a long-shut drawer, and began to bite the end of a pencil.  Spring had come again and touched his heart.  Poet he must have been, for now Yvonne was well-nigh forgotten.  This fine new loveliness of earth held him with its witchery and grace.  The perfume from her woods and meadows stirred him strangely.  Daily had he gone forth with his flock, and brought it safe at night.  But now he stretched himself under the hedge and pieced words together on his bits of paper.  The sheep strayed, and the wolves, perceiving that difficult poems make easy mutton, ventured from the woods and stole his lambs.

David’s stock of poems grew larger and his flock smaller.  Yvonne’s nose and temper waxed sharp and her talk blunt.  Her pans and kettles grew dull, but her eyes had caught their flash.  She pointed out to the poet that his neglect was reducing the flock and bringing woe upon the household.  David hired a boy to guard the sheep, locked himself in the little room at the top of the cottage, and wrote more poems.  The boy, being a poet by nature, but not furnished with an outlet in the way of writing, spent his time in slumber.  The wolves lost no time in discovering that poetry and sleep are practically the same; so the flock steadily grew smaller.  Yvonne’s ill temper increased at an equal rate.  Sometimes she would stand in the yard and rail at David through his high window.  Then you could hear her as far as the double chestnut tree above Pere Gruneau’s blacksmith forge.