d 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