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Updated: May 23, 2025
Jeannot going by from the forest night after night saw the light twinkling in the hut window, and sometimes crept softly up and looked through the chinks of the wooden shutter, and saw her leaning over some big old volume with her pretty brows drawn together, and her mouth shut close in earnest effort, and he would curse the man who had changed her so and go away with rage in his breast and tears in his eyes, not daring to say anything, but knowing that never would Bébée's little brown hand lie in love within his own.
In these gatherings Bébée's face was missed, and the blithe soft sound of her voice, like a young thrush singing, was never heard. The people looked in, and saw her sitting over a great open book; often her hearth had no fire.
An innocent, unconscious love like Bébée's wants so little food to make it all content. Such mere trifles are beautiful and sweet to it. Such slender stray gleams of light suffice to make a broad, bright golden noon of perfect joy around it.
So it came to pass that Bébée's day in the big forest came and went as simply almost as any day that she had played away with the Varnhart children under the beech shadows of Cambre woods.
Only Bébée's lord was a king of earth, made of earth's dust and vanities. But what did she know of that? The winter went by, and the snow-drops and crocus and pale hepatica smiled at her from the black clods.
Here Bébée grew from year to year; and soon learned to be big enough and hardy enough to tie up bunches of stocks and pinks for the market, and then to carry a basket for herself, trotting by Antoine's side along the green roadway and into the white, wide streets; and in the market the buyers most often of all when they were young mothers would seek out the little golden head and the beautiful frank blue eyes, and buy Bébée's lilies and carnations whether they wanted them or not.
But I am not thankless not thankless, indeed it is only I could not take what I cannot pay. That is all. You are angry still not now no?" There was, anxiety in the pleading. What did it matter to her what a stranger thought? And yet Bébée's heart was heavy as he laughed a little coldly, and bade her good day, and left her alone to go out of the city homewards.
And the people split their sides at the Cheap John's jokes; he was so droll. No one saw the leaks in his kettles or the hole in his bellows, or the leg that was lacking to his milking stool. Everybody was gay and merry that day. But Bébée's eyes looked wistfully over the throng, and did not find what they sought. Somehow the day seemed dull, and the square empty.
The painter took a long time. He set about it with the bold ease of one used to all the intricacies of form and color, and he had the skill of a master. But he spent more than half the time looking idly at the humors of the populace or watching how the treasures of Bébée's garden went away one by one in the hands of strangers.
You can read, you said?" Bébée's eyes glowed as they lifted themselves to his. "I can read not very fast, but that would come with doing it more and more, I think, just as spinning does; one knots the thread and breaks it a million times before one learns to spin as fine as cobwebs. I have read the stories of St. Anne, and of St. Catherine, and of St.
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