“Why, here you are, Cesaire--well?” The man, a thin young fellow with a melancholy air, murmured: “Well, nothing at all--always the same thing.” “He won't have it?” “He won't have it.” “What are you going to do?” “What do you say I ought to do?” “Go see the cure.” “I will.” “Go at once!” “I will.” And they stared at each other. He held the child in his arms all the time. He kissed it once more and then put it down again on the woman's clothes. In the distance, between two farm-houses, could be seen a plough drawn by a horse and driven by a man. They moved on very gently, the horse, the plough and the laborer, in the dim evening twilight. The woman went on: “What did your father say?” “He said he would not have it.” “Why wouldn't he have it?” The young man pointed toward the child whom he had just put back on the ground, then with a glance he drew her attention to the man drawing the plough yonder there. And he said emphatically: “Because 'tis his--this child of yours.” The girl shrugged her shoulders and in an angry tone said: “Faith, every one knows it well--that it is Victor's. And what about it after all? I made a slip. Am I the only woman that did? My mother also made a slip before me, and then yours did the same before she married your dad! Who is it that hasn't made a slip in the country? I made a slip with Victor because he took advantage of me while I was asleep in the barn, it's true, and afterward it happened between us when I wasn't asleep. I certainly would have married him if he weren't a servant man. Am I a worse woman for that?” The man said simply: “As for me, I like you just as you are, with or without the child. It's only my father that opposes me. All the same, I'll see about settling the business.” She answered: “Go to the cure at once.” “I'm going to him.” And he set forth with his heavy peasant's tread, while the girl, with her hands on her hips, turned round to plant her colza. In fact, the man who thus went off, Cesaire Houlbreque, the son of deaf old Amable Houlbreque, wanted to marry, in spite of his father, Celeste Levesque, who had a child by Victor Lecoq, a mere laborer on her parents' farm, who had been turned out of doors for this act. The hierarchy of caste, however, does not exist in the country, and if the laborer is thrifty, he becomes, by taking a farm in his turn, the equal of his former master. So Cesaire Houlbieque went off, his whip under his arm, brooding over his own thoughts and lifting up one after the other his heavy wooden shoes daubed with clay. Certainly he desired to marry Celeste Levesque. He wanted her with her child because she was the wife he wanted. He could not say why, but he knew it, he was sure of it. He had only to look at her to be convinced of it, to feel quite queer, quite stirred up, simply stupid with happiness. He even found a pleasure in kissing the little boy, Victor's little boy, because he belonged to her.