What could he, an old man, do?  He could work no longer; he was now good for nothing except to swallow the soup prepared by his daughter-in-law.  And he ate it in silence, morning and evening, watching with an eye of rage the little boy also taking soup, right opposite him, at the other side of the table.  Then he would go out, prowl about the fields after the fashion of a vagabond, hiding behind the barns where he would sleep for an hour or two as if he were afraid of being seen and then come back at the approach of night.

But Celeste’s mind began to be occupied by graver anxieties.  The farm needed a man to look after it and cultivate it.  Somebody should be there always to go through the fields, not a mere hired laborer, but a regular farmer, a master who understood the business and would take an interest in the farm.  A lone woman could not manage the farming, watch the price of corn and direct the sale and purchase of cattle.  Then ideas came into her head, simple practical ideas, which she had turned over in her head at night.  She could not marry again before the end of the year, and it was necessary at once to take care of pressing interests, immediate interests.

Only one man could help her out of her difficulties, Victor Lecoq, the father of her child.  He was strong and understood farming; with a little money in his pocket he would make an excellent cultivator.  She was aware of his skill, having known him while he was working on her parents’ farm.

So one morning, seeing him passing along the road with a cart of manure, she went out to meet him.  When he perceived her, he drew up his horses and she said to him as if she had met him the night before: 

“Good-morrow, Victor—­are you quite well, the same as ever?”

He replied: 

“I’m quite well, the same as ever—­and how are you?”

“Oh, I’d be all right, only that I’m alone in the house, which bothers me on account of the farm.”

Then they remained chatting for a long time, leaning against the wheel of the heavy cart.  The man every now and then lifted up his cap to scratch his forehead and began thinking, while she, with flushed cheeks, went on talking warmly, told him about her views, her plans; her projects for the future.  At last he said in a low tone: 

“Yes, it can be done.”

She opened her hand like a countryman clinching a bargain and asked: 

“Is it agreed?”

He pressed her outstretched hand.

“’Tis agreed.”

“It’s settled, then, for next Sunday?”

“It’s settled for next Sunday”

“Well, good-morning, Victor.”

“Good-morning, Madame Houlbreque.”

PART III

This particular Sunday was the day of the village festival, the annual festival in honor of the patron saint, which in Normandy is called the assembly.

For the last eight days quaint-looking vehicles in which live the families of strolling fair exhibitors, lottery managers, keepers of shooting galleries and other forms of amusement or exhibitors of curiosities whom the peasants call “wonder-makers” could be seen coming along the roads drawn slowly by gray or sorrel horses.