But as Bru was the only one who did not loll out his
tongue after La Morillonne, naturally one day she
began to think of him, and she declared that she,
at any rate, was not afraid of his evil eye, and so
she went after him.
“What do you want?” he said, and she replied
boldly:
“What do I want? I want you.”
“Very well,” he said, “but then
you must belong to me alone.”
“All right,” was her answer, “if
you think you can please me.”
He smiled and took her into his arms, and she was
away from the village for a whole week. She had,
in fact, become entirely Bru’s exclusive property.
The village grew excited. They were not jealous
of each other, but they were of him. What!
Could she not resist him. Of course he had charms
and spells against every imaginable thing. And
they grew furious. Next they grew bold, and watched
from behind a tree. She was still as lively as
ever, but he, poor fellow, seemed to have become suddenly
ill, and required the most tender nursing at her hands.
The villagers, however, felt no compassion for the
poor shepherd, and so, one of them, more courageous
than the rest, advanced towards the hut with his gun
in his hand:
“Tie up your dogs,” he cried out from
a distance; “fasten them up, Bru, or I shall
shoot them.”
“You need not be frightened of the dogs,”
La Morillonne replied; “I will be answerable
for it that they will not hurt you;” and she
smiled as the young man with the gun went towards
her.
“What do you want?” the shepherd said.
“I can tell you,” she replied. “He
wants me and I am very willing. There!”
Bru began to cry, and she continued:
“You are a good for nothing.”
And she went off with the lad, while Bru seized his
crook, seeing which the young fellow raised his gun.
“Seize him! seize him!” the shepherd shouted,
urging on his dogs, while the other had already got
his finger on the trigger to fire at them. But
La Morillonne pushed down the muzzle and called
out:
“Here, dogs! here! Prr, prr, my beauties!”
And the three dogs rushed up to her, licked her hands
and frisked about as they followed her, while she
called to the shepherd from the distance:
“You see, Bru, they are not at all jealous!”
And then, with a short and evil laugh, she added:
“They are my property now.”
[Footnote 13: A French imitation of German Lager
Beer.]
Why did I enter, on this particular evening, a certain
beer shop? I cannot explain it. It was bitterly
cold. A fine rain, a watery dust floated about,
which enshrouded the gas jets in a transparent fog,
made the pavements that passed under the shadow of
the shop fronts glitter, and which at once exhibited
the soft slush and the soiled feet of the passers-by.
