George Sand - George Sand - The Collected Works (The Greatest Novelists of All Time – Book 11)

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 Père Léonard. 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.

"Why did you refuse to let them in?" said Germain angrily. "Are you so suspicious in these parts that you don't open your door to your neighbor?"

"Oh! bless me!" the servant replied, "in a rich house like this, one has to keep a sharp lookout. I am responsible for everything when the masters are away, and I can't open the door to everybody that comes."

"That's a vile custom," said Germain, "and I'd rather be poor than live in fear like that. Adieu, girl! adieu to your wretched country!"

He inquired at the neighboring houses. Everybody had seen the shepherdess and the child. As the little one had left Belair unexpectedly, without being dressed for the occasion, with a torn blouse and his little lamb's fleece over his shoulders; and as little Marie was necessarily very shabbily dressed at all times, they had been taken for beggars. Some one had offered them bread; the girl had accepted a piece for the child, who was hungry, then she had walked away very fast with him and had gone into the woods.

Germain reflected a moment, then asked if the farmer from Ormeaux had not come to Fourche.

"Yes," was the reply; "he rode by on horseback a few minutes after the girl."

"Did he ride after her?"

"Ah! you know him, do you?" laughed the village innkeeper, to whom he had applied for information.

"Yes, to be sure; he's a devil of a fellow for running after the girls. But I don't believe he caught that one; although, after all, if he had seen her—"

"That's enough, thanks!" And he flew rather than ran to Leonard's stable. He threw the saddle on Grise's back, leaped upon her, and galloped away in the direction of the woods of Chanteloube.

His heart was beating fast with anxiety and wrath, the perspiration rolled down his forehead. He covered Grise's sides with blood, although the mare, when she found that she was on the way to her stable, did not need to be urged to go at full speed.

Table of Contents

Germain soon found himself at the spot on the edge of the pool where he had passed the night. The fire was still smoking; an old woman was picking up what was left of the dead wood Marie had collected. Germain stopped to question her. She was deaf, and misunderstood his questions.

"Yes, my boy," she said, "this is the Devil's Pool. It's a bad place, and you mustn't come near it without throwing three stones in with your left hand and crossing yourself with your right: that drives away the spirits. Unless they do that, misfortune comes to those who walk around it."

"I didn't ask you about that," said Germain, drawing nearer to her and shouting at the top of his voice: "Haven't you seen a girl and a young child going through the woods?"

"Yes," said the old woman, "there was a small child drowned there!"

Germain shivered from head to foot; but luckily the old woman added:

"That was a long, long while ago; they put up a beautiful cross; but on a fine stormy night the evil spirits threw it into the water. You can still see one end of it. If any one had the bad luck to stop here at night, he would be very sure not to be able to go away before dawn. It would do him no good to walk, walk: he might travel two hundred leagues through the woods and find himself still in the same place."—The ploughman's imagination was impressed, do what he would, by what he heard, and the idea of the misfortune which might follow, to justify the remainder of the old woman's assertions, took such complete possession of his brain that he felt cold all over his body. Despairing of obtaining any additional information, he mounted his horse and began to ride through the woods, calling Pierre at the top of his voice, whistling, cracking his whip, breaking off branches to fill the forest with the noise of his progress, then listening to see if any voice answered; but he heard naught but the bells on the cows scattered among the bushes, and the fierce grunting of pigs fighting over the acorns.

At last, Germain heard behind him the footsteps of a horse following in his track, and a man of middle age, swarthy, robust, dressed like a semi-bourgeois, shouted to him to stop. Germain had never seen the farmer of Ormeaux; but an angry instinct led him to determine at once that it was he. He turned, and, eyeing him from head to foot, waited to hear what he had to say to him.

"Haven't you seen a young girl of fifteen or sixteen, with a little boy, pass this way?" said the farmer, affecting an indifferent manner, although he was visibly moved.

"What do you want of her?" demanded Germain, not seeking to disguise his indignation.

"I might tell you that that was none of your business, my friend, but as I have no reason to hide it, I will tell you that she's a shepherdess I hired for the year without knowing her.—When she came to the farm, she seemed to me too young and not strong enough for the work. I thanked her, but I insisted on paying her what her little journey had cost; and she went off in a rage while my back was turned.—She was in such a hurry that she even forgot part of her things and her purse, which hasn't very much in it, to be sure; a few sous, I suppose!—but as I had business in this direction, I thought I might meet her and give her what she forgot and what I owe her."

Germain was too honest a soul not to hesitate when he heard that story, which was possible at least, if not very probable. He fixed a piercing gaze on the farmer, who bore his scrutiny with much impudence or else with perfect innocence.