As they approached the farm, a girl who was making hay in the meadow dropped her fork and ran toward them. It was Sophie, who had recognized the doctor and the young lady, as she called Clotilde. She adored them, but she stood looking at them in confusion, unable to express the glad greeting with which her heart overflowed. She resembled her brother Valentin; she had his small stature, his prominent cheek bones, his pale hair; but in the country, far from the contagion of the paternal environment, she had, it seemed, gained flesh; acquired with her robust limbs a firm step; her cheeks had filled out, her hair had grown luxuriant. And she had fine eyes, which shone with health and gratitude. Her Aunt Dieudonné, who was making hay with her, had come toward them also, crying from afar jestingly, with something of Provençal rudeness: “Ah, M. Pascal, we have no need of you here! There is no one sick!” The doctor, who had simply come in search of this fine spectacle of health, answered in the same tone: “I hope so, indeed. But that does not prevent this little girl here from owing you and me a fine taper!” “Well, that is the pure truth! And she knows it, M. Pascal. There is not a day that she does not say that but for you she would be at this time like her brother Valentin.” “Bah! We will save him, too. He is getting better, Valentin is. I have just been to see him.” Sophie seized the doctor’s hands; large tears stood in her eyes, and she could only stammer: “Oh, M. Pascal!” How they loved him! And Clotilde felt her affection for him increase, seeing the affection of all these people for him. They remained chatting there for a few moments longer, in the salubrious shade of the green oaks. Then they took the road back to Plassans, having still another visit to make. This was to a tavern, that stood at the crossing of two roads and was white with the flying dust. A steam mill had recently been established opposite, utilizing the old buildings of Le Paradou, an estate dating from the last century, and Lafouasse, the tavern keeper, still carried on his little business, thanks to the workmen at the mill and to the peasants who brought their corn to it. He had still for customers on Sundays the few inhabitants of Les Artauds, a neighboring hamlet. But misfortune had struck him; for the last three years he had been dragging himself about groaning with rheumatism, in which the doctor had finally recognized the beginning of ataxia. But he had obstinately refused to take a servant, persisting in waiting on his customers himself, holding on by the furniture. So that once more firm on his feet, after a dozen punctures, he already proclaimed his cure everywhere. He chanced to be just then at his door, and looked strong and vigorous, with his tall figure, fiery face, and fiery red hair. “I was waiting for you, M. Pascal. Do you know that I have been able to bottle two casks of wine without being tired!”