Violette walked on, but darkness came on rapidly and soon she could see nothing, and kept running against trees. She had gone astray in the wood of Vincennes, and the rain was falling in torrents. The poor girl leaned against a small tree, whose foliage was insufficient to protect her from the storm; but she did not notice the water which drenched her garments, for she was absorbed by her grief. A little covered wagon, drawn by a meagre horse, passed along the road by the side of which Violette had stopped; a peasant, who was inside, saw the girl exposed to the fury of the storm; he stopped his wagon and called out to her: "You are not in a very good place there; you are getting the whole of it; get in with me; if you are going to Paris, I'll put you down at the Barriere de Belleville." "Thanks, monsieur, thanks, it isn't worth while;" replied Violette in a feeble voice. "I am all right here." "All right! oh, yes! you are all right to catch a sickness; I won't leave a woman in the woods at this time of night, and in such weather as this!--Oho! you don't want to get in, don't you?--Well, I am going to make you! yes, I tell you you've got to get in!" The peasant jumped down from his wagon, took the girl under the arms, forced her to the step, put one foot upon it and at last succeeded in making her get in. Violette submitted like a child. The peasant seated her upon his cabbages and carrots, saying: "You will be better in here than under that little tree, catching all the rain; you're wet through already, and I'm sure that's what made you numb. Poor girl, she can't talk nor move her legs; but the jolting of the wagon will warm her up.--Come on, get up, Blanchet!" Blanchet started; the cart, having no springs, did in fact shake its occupants in a fashion well calculated to rouse their wits. Violette submitted to the jolting, and said nothing; she seemed indifferent to all that went on about her; she understood but one thing, and that was that she ought not to live any longer, because she would be despised by everybody; she was unhappy enough when she went to Nogent in the morning; now she was desperate, and she came away from there with death in her heart; she had hoped to find consolation and protection there, but she had found shame and contempt; she had been turned away, and she did not feel that she had the strength to endure that last affront. The peasant who had taken the girl into his wagon did not notice her gloomy despair; as he talked all the time, as he asked questions and answered them all himself, other persons did not need to open their mouths with him; his mouth was a word-mill, which was always at work. Thus they arrived at the Barriere de la Courtille, where the peasant stopped Blanchet, and said to the girl: