le path across the fields. He watched the young
wheat and the young oats, thinking that his son was now under the clay,
his poor boy. He went on at his customary pace, dragging his legs after
him in a limping fashion. And, as he was all alone in the plain, all
alone under the blue sky, in the midst of the growing crops, all alone
with the larks, which he saw hovering above his head, without hearing
their light song, he began to weep while he proceeded on his way.

Then he sat down close to a pool, and remained there till evening, gazing
at the little birds that came there to drink; then, as the night was
falling, he returned to the house, supped without saying a word, and
climbed up to his loft.

And his life went on as in the past. Nothing was changed, except that his
son, Cesaire, slept in the cemetery.

What could he, an old man, do? He could work no longer; he was now good
for nothing except to swallow the soup prepared by his daughter-in-law.
And he did swallow it in silence, morning and evening, watching with an
eye of rage, the little boy also taking soup, right opposite him, at the
other side of the table. Then he went out, prowled about the fields in
the fashion of a vagabond, went hiding behind the barns, where he slept
for an hour or two, as if he were afraid of being seen, and then he came
back at the approach of night.

But Celeste's mind began to be occupied by graver anxieties. The grounds
needed a man to look after them and work them. Somebody should be there
always to go through the fields, not a mere hired laborer, but a big
cultivator, a master, who would know the business and have the care of
the farm. A lone woman could not manage the farming, watch the price of
corn, and direct the sale and purchase of cattle. Then ideas came into
her head, simple practical ideas, which she had turned over in her head
at night. She could not marry again before the end of the year, and it
was necessary at once to take care of pressing interests, immediate
interests.

Only one man could extricate her from embarrassment, Victor Lecoq, the
father of her child. He was strong and well acquainted with farming
business; with a little money in his pocket, he would make an excellent
cultivator. She was aware of his skill, having known him while he was
working on his parents' farm.

So, one morning, seeing him passing along the road with a cart of dung,
she went out to meet him. When he perceived her, he drew up his hor