Mademoiselle Donet's hand.

* * * * *

PART III

The week appeared long to Cesar Hautot. He had never before found
himself alone, and the isolation seemed to him insupportable. Till now,
he had lived at his father's side, just like his shadow, followed him
into the fields, superintended the execution of his orders, and, when
they had been a short time separated, again met him at dinner. They had
spent the evenings smoking their pipes, face to face with one another,
chatting about horses, cows or sheep, and the grip of their hands when
they rose up in the morning might have been regarded as a manifestation
of deep family affection on both sides.

Now Cesar was alone, he went vacantly through the process of dressing
the soil of autumn, every moment expecting to see the tall gesticulating
silhouette of his father rising up at the end of a plain. To kill time,
he entered the houses of his neighbors, told about the accident to all
who had not heard of it, and sometimes repeated it to the others. Then,
after he had finished his occupations and his reflections, he would sit
down at the side of a road, asking himself whether this kind of life was
going to last for ever.

He frequently thought of Mademoiselle Donet. He liked her. He considered
her thoroughly respectable, a gentle and honest young woman, as his
father had said. Yes, undoubtedly she was an honest girl. He resolved to
act handsomely towards her, and to give her two thousand francs a year,
settling the capital on the child. He even experienced a certain
pleasure in thinking that he was going to see her on the following
Thursday and arrange this matter with her. And then the notion of this
brother, this little chap of five, who was his father's son, plagued
him, annoyed him a little, and, at the same time, exhibited him. He had,
as it were, a family in this brat, sprung from a clandestine alliance,
who would never bear the name of Hautot, a family which he might take or
leave, just as he pleased, but which would recall his father.

And so, when he saw himself on the road to Rouen on Thursday morning,
carried along by Graindorge trotting with clattering foot-beats, he felt
his heart lighter, more at peace than he had hitherto felt it since his
bereavement.

On entering Mademoiselle Donet's apartment, he saw the table laid as on
the previous Thursday with the sole difference that the crust had not
been removed from the bread. He p