A feeling of delicious coolness pervaded her from head to foot, and suddenly, while she was looking fixedly at the deep pool, she was seized with dizziness, and with a mad longing to throw herself into it.  All her sufferings would be over in there, over forever.  She no longer thought of her child; she only wanted peace, complete rest, and to sleep forever, and she got up with raised arms and took two steps forward.  She was in the water up to her thighs, and she was just about to throw her self in when sharp, pricking pains in her ankles made her jump back, and she uttered a cry of despair, for, from her knees to the tips of her feet, long black leeches were sucking her lifeblood, and were swelling as they adhered to her flesh.  She did not dare to touch them, and screamed with horror, so that her cries of despair attracted a peasant, who was driving along at some distance, to the spot.  He pulled off the leeches one by one, applied herbs to the wounds, and drove the girl to her master’s farm in his gig.

She was in bed for a fortnight, and as she was sitting outside the door on the first morning that she got up, the farmer suddenly came and planted himself before her.  “Well,” he said, “I suppose the affair is settled isn’t it?” She did not reply at first, and then, as he remained standing and looking at her intently with his piercing eyes, she said with difficulty:  “No, master, I cannot.”  He immediately flew into a rage.

“You cannot, girl; you cannot?  I should just like to know the reason why?” She began to cry, and repeated:  “I cannot.”  He looked at her, and then exclaimed angrily:  “Then I suppose you have a lover?” “Perhaps that is it,” she replied, trembling with shame.

The man got as red as a poppy, and stammered out in a rage:  “Ah!  So you confess it, you slut!  And pray who is the fellow?  Some penniless, half-starved ragamuffin, without a roof to his head, I suppose?  Who is it, I say?” And as she gave him no answer, he continued:  “Ah!  So you will not tell me.  Then I will tell you; it is Jean Baudu?”—­“No, not he,” she exclaimed.  “Then it is Pierre Martin?”—­“Oh! no, master.”

And he angrily mentioned all the young fellows in the neighborhood, while she denied that he had hit upon the right one, and every moment wiped her eyes with the corner of her blue apron.  But he still tried to find it out, with his brutish obstinacy, and, as it were, scratching at her heart to discover her secret, just as a terrier scratches at a hole to try and get at the animal which he scents inside it.  Suddenly, however, the man shouted:  “By George!  It is Jacques, the man who was here last year.  They used to say that you were always talking together, and that you thought about getting married.”