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"Take him, Germain, I beg you; I shall be prouder of him than of my wedding-dress." Germain yielded the point, and the handsome trio dashed forward at Grise's proudest gallop.
Little Marie was drenched, but she did not complain or seem disturbed. Thinking only of the child, she sat down in the sand and took him on her knees, while Germain explored the neighborhood after throwing Grise's rein over the branch of a tree.
He concealed Grise's saddle in the bushes once more, took his bag over his shoulder, and said, taking his son's hand: "Now, Marie, we'll try and finish our journey. Do you want me to take you to Ormeaux?" "We will go out of the woods together," she replied, "and when we know where we are, we will go our separate ways." Germain said nothing.
He threw the saddle on Grise's back, leaped upon her, and galloped away in the direction of the woods of Chanteloube. His heart was beating fast with anxiety and wrath, the perspiration rolled down his forehead. He covered Grise's sides with blood, although the mare, when she found that she was on the way to her stable, did not need to be urged to go at full speed.
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