How happens it that, in crossing the heath, Blandine's thoughts keep obstinately running on the misadventure of the King of Winnowers? Although Ariaan was not wholely unknown to her, he had nothing to do with her in any way. It was a fact that during one season he had dwelt not far from her home. Through the barndoor Blandine used to catch furtive glimpses of him at his work, as he stood there nude to the girdle, ruddy fleshed and humid with moisture but, notwithstanding, attractive in the half-shadow. In measured time the winnowing-fan used to strike his hardened knee, and ended by wearing out his thick breeches, which were always patched in the same place.
Blandine, as she trotted along, left off humming the refrain of the day, to take up that of the winnower!—
Van! Vanne! Vanvarla!
Balle!
Vole!
Vanci! Vanla!
If her heart contracts a little, while she hastens her steps, it is not at all from anxiety for herself, but from a sort of pity for the wastrel. The softened night lends itself
