Germain was too honest a soul not to hesitate when he heard that story,
which was possible at least, if not very probable. He fixed a piercing
gaze on the farmer, who bore his scrutiny with much impudence or else
with perfect innocence.

"I want to have a clear conscience," said Germain to himself, and,
restraining his indignation, he continued aloud:

"She's a girl from our neighborhood; I know her: she must be somewhere
about here. Let us go on together--we shall find her, I've no doubt."

"You are right," said the farmer. "Let's go on--but, if we don't find
her at the end of the path, I give it up--for I must take the Ardentes
road."

"Oho!" thought the ploughman, "I won't leave you! even if I should have
to twist around the Devil's Pool with you for twenty-four hours!"

"Stay!" said Germain suddenly, fixing his eyes on a clump of furze which
was moving back and forth in a peculiar way: "holà! holà! Petit-Pierre,
my child, is that you?"

The child, recognizing his father's voice, leaped out of the bushes like
a kid, but when he saw that he was with the farmer, he stopped as if in
terror, and stood still, uncertain what to do.

"Come, my Pierre, come, it's me!" cried the ploughman, riding toward him
and leaping down from his horse to take him in his arms: "and where's
little Marie?"