forget it； but all at once it begins again； obliging you to look up。
You cannot catch it； nor drive it away； nor kill it； nor make it keep
still。 As soon as it settles for a second； it starts off buzzing again。
The recollection of Martine disturbed Benoist's mind like an imprisoned
fly。
Then he longed to see her again and walked past the Martiniere several
times。 He saw her； at last； hanging out some clothes on a line stretched
between two apple trees。
It was a warm day。 She had on only a short skirt and her chemise；
showing the curves of her figure as she hung up the towels。 He remained
there； concealed by the hedge； for more than an hour； even after she had
left。 He returned home more obsessed with her image than ever。
For a month his mind was full of her； he trembled when her name was
mentioned in his presence。 He could not eat； he had night sweats that
kept him from sleeping。
On Sunday； at mass； he never took his eyes off her。 She noticed it and
smiled at him； flattered at his appreciation。
One evening； he suddenly met her in the road。 She stopped short when she
saw him coming。 Then he walked right up to her； choking with fear and
emotion； but determined to speak to her。 He began falteringly：
〃See here； Martine； this cannot go on like this any longer。〃
She replied as if she wanted to tease him：
〃What cannot go on any longer； Benoist？〃
〃My thinking of you as many hours as there are in the day；〃 he answered。
She put her hands on her hips。
〃I do not oblige you to do so。〃
〃Yes； it is you；〃 he stammered； 〃I cannot sleep； nor rest； nor eat； nor
anything。〃
〃What do you need to cure you of all that？〃 she asked。
He stood there in dismay； his arms swinging； his eyes staring； his mouth
agape。
She hit him a punch in the stomach and ran off。
From that day they met each other along the roadside； in by…roads or else
at twilight on the edge of a field； when he was going home with his
horses and she was driving her cows home to the stable。
He felt himself carried； cast toward her by a strong impulse of his heart
and body。 He would have liked to squeeze her； strangle her； eat her；
make her part of himself。 And he trembled with impotence； impatience；
rage； to think she did not belong to him entirely； as if they were one
being。
People gossiped about it in the countryside。 They said they were
engaged。 He had； besides； asked her if she would be his wife； and she
had answered 〃Yes。〃
They； were waiting for an opportunity to talk to their parents about it。
But； all at once； she stopped coming to meet him at the usual hour。 He
did not even see her as he wandered round the farm。 He could only catch
a glimpse of her at mass on Sunday。 And one Sunday； after the sermon；
the priest actually published the banns of marriage between Victoire…
Adelaide Martin and Josephin…Isidore Vallin。
Benoist felt a sensation in his hands as if the blood had been drained
off。 He had a buzzing in the ears； and could hear nothing； and presently
he perceived that his tears were falling on his prayer book。
For a month he stayed in his room。 Then he went back to his work。
But he was not cured； and it was always in his mind。 He avoided the
roads that led past her home； so that he might not even see the trees in
the yard； and this obliged him to make a great circuit morning and
evening。
She was now married to Vallin； the richest farmer in the district。
Benoist and he did not speak now； though they had been comrades from
childhood。
One evening； as Benoist was passing the town hall； he heard that she was
enceinte。 Instead of experiencing a feeling of sorrow； he experienced；
on the contrary； a feeling of relief。 It was over； now； all over。 They
were more separated by that than by her marriage。 He really preferred
that it should be so。
Months passed； and more months。 He caught sight of her； occasionally；
going to the village with a heavier step than usual。 She blushed as she
saw him； lowered her head and quickened her pace。 And he turned out of
his way so as not to pass her and meet her glance。
He dreaded the thought that he might one morning meet her face to face；
and be obliged to speak to her。 What could he say to her now； after all
he had said formerly； when he held her hands as he kissed her hair beside
her cheeks？ He often thought of those meetings along the roadside。 She
had acted horridly after all her promises。
By degrees his grief diminished； leaving only sadness behind。 And one
day he took the old road that led past the farm where she now lived。
He looked at the roof from a distance。 It was there； in there； that she
lived with another！ The apple trees were in bloom； the cocks crowed on
the dung hill。 The whole dwelling seemed empty； the farm hands had gone
to the fields to their spring toil。 He stopped near the gate and looked
into the yard。 The dog was asleep outside his kennel； three calves were
walking slowly； one behind the other； towards the pond。 A big turkey was
strutting before the door； parading before the turkey hens like a singer
at the opera。
Benoist leaned against the gate post and was suddenly seized with a
desire to weep。 But suddenly； he heard a cry； a loud cry for help coming
from the house。 He was struck with dismay； his hands grasping the wooden
bars of the gate； and listened attentively。 Another cry； a prolonged；
heartrending cry； reached his ears； his soul； his flesh。 It was she who
was crying like that！ He darted inside； crossed the grass patch； pushed
open the door； and saw her lying on the floor； her body drawn up； her
face livid； her eyes haggard； in the throes of childbirth。
He stood there； trembling and paler than she was； and stammered：
〃Here I am； here I am； Martine！〃
She replied in gasps：
〃Oh； do not leave me； do not leave me； Benoist！〃
He looked at her； not knowing what to say； what to do。 She began to cry
out again：
〃Oh； oh； it is killing me。 Oh； Benoist！〃
She writhed frightfully。
Benoist was suddenly seized with a frantic longing to help her； to quiet
her； to remove her pain。 He leaned over； lifted her up and laid her on
her bed； and while she kept on moaning he began to take off her clothes；
her jacket； her skirt and her petticoat。 She bit her fists to keep from
crying out。 Then he did as he was accustomed to doing for cows； ewes；
and mares： he assisted in delivering her and found in his hands a large
infant who was moaning。
He wiped it off and wrapped it up in a towel that was drying in front of
the fire； and laid it on a bundle of clothes ready for ironing that was
on the table。 Then he went back to the mother。
He took her up and placed her on the floor again； then he changed the
bedclothes and put her back into bed。 She faltered：
〃Thank you； Benoist； you have a noble heart。〃 And then she wept a little
as if she felt regretful。
He did not love her any longer； not the least bit。 It was all over。
Why？ How？ He could not have said。 What had happened had cured him
better than ten years of absence。
She asked； exhausted and trembling：
〃What is it？〃
He replied calmly：
〃It is a very fine girl。〃
Then they were silent again。 At the end of a few moments； the mother； in
a weak voice； said：
〃Show her to me； Benoist。〃
He took up the little one and was showing it to her as if he were holding
the consecrated wafer； when the door opened； and Isidore Vallin appeared。
He did not understand at first； then all at once he guessed。
Benoist； in consternation； stammered out：
〃I was passing； I was just passing by when f heard her crying out； and I
camethere is your child； Vallin！〃
Then the husband； his eyes full of tears； stepped forward； took the
little mite of humanity that he held out to him； kissed it； unable to
speak from emotion for a few seconds； then placing the child on the bed；
he held out both hands to Benoist； saying：
〃Your hand upon it； Benoist。 From now on we understand each other。 If
you are willing； we will be a pair of friends； a pair of friends！〃 And
Benoist replied： 〃Indeed I will； certainly； indeed I will。〃
ALL OVER
Compte de Lormerin had just finished dressing。 He cast a parting glance
at the large mirror which occupied an entire panel in his dressing…room
and smiled。
He was really a fine…looking man still； although quite gray。 Tall；
slight； elegant； with no sign of a paunch； with a small mustache of
doubtful shade； which might be called fair； he had a walk； a nobility； a
〃chic；〃 in short； that indescribable something which establishes a
greater difference between two men than would millions of money。 He
murmured：
〃Lormerin is still alive！〃
And he went into the drawing…room where his correspondence awaited him。
On his table； where everything had its place； the work table of the
gentleman who never works； there were a dozen letters lying beside three
newspapers of different opinions。 With a single touch he spread out all
these letters； like a gambler giving the choice of a card； and he scanned
the handwriting； a thing he did each morning before opening the
envelopes。
It was for him a moment of delightful expectancy； of inquiry and vague
anxiety。 What did these sealed mysterious letters bring him？ What did
they contain of pleasure； of happiness； or of grief？ He surveyed them
with a rapid sweep of the eye； recognizing the writing； selecting them；
making two or three lots； according to what he expected from them。 Here；
friends； there； persons to whom he was indifferent； further on；
strangers。 The last kind always gave him a little uneasiness。 What did
they want from him？ What hand had traced those curious characters full
of thoughts； promises； or threats？
This day one letter in particular caught his eye。 It was simple；
nevertheless； without seeming to reveal anything； but he looked at it
uneasily； with a sort of chill at his heart。 He thought： 〃From whom can
it be？ I certainly know this writing； and yet I can't identify it。〃
He raised it to a level with his face； holding it delicately between two
fingers； striving to read through the envelope； without making up his
mind to open it。
Then