barren expanse, however, with broad belts of desolate fields
of hard and distinct coloring, had classic lines of a severe grandeur.
And on the road the dust lay twenty centimeters thick, a dust like snow,
that the slightest breath of wind raised in broad, flying clouds, and
that covered with white powder the fig trees and the brambles on either
side.

Clotilde, who amused herself like a child, listening to this dust
crackling under her little feet, wished to hold her parasol over Pascal.

"You have the sun in your eyes. Lean a little this way."

But at last he took possession of the parasol, to hold it himself.

"It is you who do not hold it right; and then it tires you. Besides, we
are almost there now."

In the parched plain they could already perceive an island of verdure,
an enormous clump of trees. This was La Seguiranne, the farm on which
Sophie had grown up in the house of her Aunt Dieudonne, the wife of
the cross old man. Wherever there was a spring, wherever there was a
rivulet, this ardent soil broke out in rich vegetation; and then
there were walks bordered by trees, whose luxuriant foliage afforded a
delightful coolness and shade. Plane trees, chestnut trees, and young
elms grew vigorously. They entered an avenue of magnificent green oaks.

As they approached the farm, a girl who was making hay in the meadow
dropped her fork and ran toward them. It was Sophie, who had recognized
the doctor and the young lady, as she called Clotilde. She adored them,
but she stood looking at them in confusion, unable to express the glad
greeting with which her heart overflowed. She resembled her brother
Valentin; she had his small stature, his prominent cheek bones, his
pale hair; but in the country, far from the contagion of the paternal
environment, she had, it seemed, gained flesh; acquired with her
robust limbs a firm step; her cheeks had filled out, her hair had grown
luxuriant. And she had fine eyes, which shone with health and gratitude.
Her Aunt Dieudonne, who was making hay with her, had come toward them
also, crying from afar jestingly, with something of Provencal rudeness:

"Ah, M. Pascal, we have no need of you here! There is no one sick!"

The doctor, who had simply come in search of this fine spectacle of
health, answered in the same tone:

"I hope so, indeed. But that does not prevent this little girl here from
owing you and me a fine taper!"

"Well, that is the pure truth! And she knows it, M. Pasca