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Updated: May 13, 2025
His heart was Yvonne's; there where he had lived always he could write his poems and find his happiness. David rose, and shook off his unrest and the wild mood that had tempted him. He set his face steadfastly back along the road he had come. By the time he had retravelled the road to Vernoy, his desire to rove was gone.
Whither it led he knew not, but he was resolved to leave Vernoy far behind that night. He travelled a league and then passed a large château which showed testimony of recent entertainment. Lights shone from every window; from the great stone gateway ran a tracery of wheel tracks drawn in the dust by the vehicles of the guests. Three leagues farther and David was weary.
"What do you follow in Paris?" "I I would be a poet, sire." "What did you in Vernoy?" "I minded my father's flock of sheep." The king stirred again, and the film lifted from his eyes. "Ah! in the fields!" "Yes, sire." "You lived in the fields; you went out in the cool of the morning and lay among the hedges in the grass.
Why should he leave her and his home because a few hot words had come between them? Was love so brittle a thing that jealousy, the very proof of it, could break it? Mornings always brought a cure for the little heartaches of evening. There was yet time for him to return home without any one in the sweetly sleeping village of Vernoy being the wiser.
He bore a letter which I have intercepted. I have brought him here that your majesty may no longer think my zeal excessive." "I will question him," said the king, stirring in his chair. He looked at David with heavy eyes dulled by an opaque film. The poet bent his knee. "From where do you come?" asked the king. "From the village of Vernoy, in the province of Eure-et-Loir, sire."
He saw a light yet shining in Yvonne's window, and a weakness shook his purpose of a sudden. Perhaps that light meant that she rued, sleepless, her anger, and that morning might But, no! His decision was made. Vernoy was no place for him. Not one soul there could share his thoughts. Out along that road lay his fate and his future.
Three leagues across the dim, moonlit champaign ran the road, straight as a ploughman's furrow. It was believed in the village that the road ran to Paris, at least; and this name the poet whispered often to himself as he walked. Never so far from Vernoy had David travelled before. Three leagues, then, the road ran, and turned into a puzzle. It joined with another and a larger road at right angles.
"And now I will be going back to my sheep." "If you would dine with me," said the man of books, "and overlook the smart of it, I will give you reasons at length." "No," said the poet, "I must be back in the fields cawing at my sheep." Back along the road to Vernoy he trudged with his poems under his arm.
David crept softly into his room in the shed of his father's cottage and made a bundle of his small store of clothing. With this upon a staff, he set his face outward upon the road that ran from Vernoy. He passed his father's herd of sheep, huddled in their nightly pen the sheep he herded daily, leaving them to scatter while he wrote verses on scraps of paper.
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