She, laced up in a corset which she wore only once a week, walked along erect, with her squeezed-in waist, her broad shoulders and prominent hips, swinging herself a little.  She wore a hat trimmed with flowers, made by a milliner at Yvetot, and displayed the back of her full, round, supple neck, reddened by the sun and air, on which fluttered little stray locks of hair.

Benoist saw only her back; but he knew well the face he loved, without, however, having ever noticed it more closely than he did now.

Suddenly he said:  “Nom d’un nom, she is a fine girl, all the same, that Martine.”  He watched her as she walked, admiring her hastily, feeling a desire taking possession of him.  He did not long to see her face again, no.  He kept gazing at her figure, repeating to himself:  “Nom d’un nom, she is a fine girl.”

Martine turned to the right to enter “La Martiniere,” the farm of her father, Jean Martin, and she cast a glance behind her as she turned round.  She saw Benoist, who looked to her very comical.  She called out:  “Good-morning, Benoist.”  He replied:  “Good-morning, Martine; good-morning, mait Martin,” and went on his way.

When he reached home the soup was on the table.  He sat down opposite his mother beside the farm hand and the hired man, while the maid servant went to draw some cider.

He ate a few spoonfuls, then pushed away his plate.  His mother said: 

“Don’t you feel well?”

“No.  I feel as if I had some pap in my stomach and that takes away my appetite.”

He watched the others eating, as he cut himself a piece of bread from time to time and carried it lazily to his mouth, masticating it slowly.  He thought of Martine.  “She is a fine girl, all the same.”  And to think that he had not noticed it before, and that it came to him, just like that, all at once, and with such force that he could not eat.

He did not touch the stew.  His mother said: 

“Come, Benoist, try and eat a little; it is loin of mutton, it will do you good.  When one has no appetite, they should force themselves to eat.”

He swallowed a few morsels, then, pushing away his plate, said: 

“No.  I can’t go that, positively.”

When they rose from table he walked round the farm, telling the farm hand he might go home and that he would drive up the animals as he passed by them.

The country was deserted, as it was the day of rest.  Here and there in a field of clover cows were moving along heavily, with full bellies, chewing their cud under a blazing sun.  Unharnessed plows were standing at the end of a furrow; and the upturned earth ready for the seed showed broad brown patches of stubble of wheat and oats that had lately been harvested.

A rather dry autumn wind blew across the plain, promising a cool evening after the sun had set.  Benoist sat down on a ditch, placed his hat on his knees as if he needed to cool off his head, and said aloud in the stillness of the country:  “If you want a fine girl, she is a fine girl.”