But Marie has miscalculated her strength. She grows suddenly so white that Monsieur le Blanc, the epicier of the Rue des Bons Enfants, takes her into his daughter's room and makes her lie down on the little sofa. Marie lies there with widely-opened eyes, wondering how she shall get back to St. Gertrude. "You are to lie still till Therese comes back from market," the old man says, "and then she will arrange about your going home." Marie lies gazing dreamily at the blue-papered ceiling. "I used to think Therese le Blanc a cross old maid," she ponders: "shall I be a cross old maid too?" And then the pale, stricken girl holds up her thin hand and sighs: "I shall not be old: I shall die soon. Poor mother! she will forgive Nicolas when I am gone away." There is a bustle in the shop, but Marie does not heed it. She smiles when Therese comes in, but she is too weak to talk--too weak to make any objection when she hears that a farmer who lives some miles beyond St. Gertrude has undertaken to convey her in his huge green-hooded wagon as far as the cross-road. Therese stands over her while she eats a piece of bread and drinks a glass of wine, and then the farmer, a stout old Norman in a gray blouse, helps her into the back of the wagon, and makes a resting-place for her on some of the hay still left unsold, under the lofty arched roof. V. "Get up my friend, get up: you will reach Yvetot sooner if I give you a lift than if you wait. The diligence does not leave Aubette till six o'clock, remember, and my old horses get over the ground surely if not quickly." Marie rouses from a sort of doze, but she cannot see the farmer or the wayfarer to whom he speaks: a pile of new fruit-baskets fills up the middle of the huge vehicle, and makes a wall between Marie and the driving-seat. "Well, mon gars, it is a long time since I saw you, and the town-gossip of Aubette tells me more of your affairs than you ever condescend to inform your cousin of. Your mother was different, Leon. Dame! I could never pass her door after your father died but she would stop my wagon and ask me for just five minutes' counsel. But you young ones are all alike: the world has got a new pivot, it seems, for this generation, and it will move round more easily when we graybeards are all kicked out." "I don't think so, for one." Marie had known she must hear Leon Roussel's voice, and yet her heart throbbed at his first words. "But, my cousin, what is the news that thou hast learned about me in Aubette?" "Well, the news varies: sometimes I hear thee coupled with one girl, and then again with another, till I do not know what to think, Leon. I am afraid thou art fickle." There was a pause. Marie raised herself on one elbow and listened breathlessly: it never came to her mind that she was listening to talk not intended for her ears. "Well, man"--the farmer seemed nettled--"why not speak out and say thou art promised to old Lesage's daughter?" "Because I am not promised to her."