He was suffering keenly, he had a mountain of
_ennui_ upon his heart. He wished he were dead. Everything seemed to be
turning out badly for him, and if he could have wept, he would not have
done it by halves. But there was a little anger with himself mingled
with his suffering, and he was suffocating, unable and unwilling to
complain.
When day broke and the noise in the fields announced the fact to
Germain, he took his hands from his face and rose. He saw that little
Marie had not slept, either, but he could think of nothing to say to her
to show his solicitude. He was utterly discouraged. He concealed Grise's
saddle in the bushes once more, took his bag over his shoulder, and
said, taking his son's hand:
"Now, Marie, we'll try and finish our journey. Do you want me to take
you to Ormeaux?"
"We will go out of the woods together," she replied, "and when we know
where we are, we will go our separate ways."
Germain said nothing. He was wounded because the girl did not ask him to
escort her to Ormeaux, and he did not realize that he had made the offer
in a tone that seemed to challenge a refusal.
A wood-cutter, whom they met within two hundred paces, pointed out the
path they must take, and told them that after crossing the great meadow
they had only to go, in the one case straight ahead, in the other to
the left, to reach their respective destinations, which, by the way,
were so near together that the houses at Fourche could be distinctly
seen from the farm of Ormeaux, and _vice versa_.
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