hose men whom one
liked to have for a friend. I told him what a bad shepherdess I had
been, and although I felt sure he would laugh at me, I told him the
story of the sheep which was all swollen up. He didn't laugh. He put
a finger on my forehead and said, "Love is the only thing that will
cure that."

One day we stopped near an immense field of corn. It was so big that
we could not see the end of it. Thousands of white butterflies were
floating about over the corn ears. Henri Deslois didn't speak, and I
watched the ears of corn which were stooping and stretching as though
they were getting ready to fly. It looked as though the butterflies
were bringing them wings to help them, but it was no good for the corn
ears to get excited. They could not get away from the ground. I told
my idea to Henri Deslois, who looked at the corn for a long time, and
then, as though he were speaking to himself, and dragging the words
out, he said, "It is much the same kind of thing with a man. Sometimes
a woman comes to him. She looks like the white butterflies of the
plain. He doesn't know whether she comes up from the earth or whether
she comes down from the sky. He feels that with her he could live on
the wind which passes, and the fresh young flowers. But like the root
which holds the corn to earth a mysterious bond holds him to his duty,
which is as strong as the earth." I thought that his voice had an
accent of suffering, and that the corners of his mouth drooped more
than usual. But almost immediately his eyes looked into mine, and he
said in a stronger voice, "We must have confidence in ourselves."

Summer passed and the autumn, and in spite of the bad weather of
December we could not make up our minds to leave the house on the hill.
Henri Deslois used to bring books with him which we would read, sitting
on the logs of wood in the back room which looked into the garden. I
went back to the farm at nightfall, and Adele, who thought I was
spending my time dancing in the village, was always surprised that I
looked so sad.

Almost every day Henri Deslois came to Villevieille. I could hear him
from a long way off. He rode a great white mare which trotted heavily,
and he rode her without saddle or bridle. She was a patient and a
gentle brute. Her master used to let her run loose in the yard while
he went in to say "good day," to Madame Alphonse. As soon as M.
Alphonse heard him he would come into the lin