"There is none to do, Jeannot. They want so little in this time of the
year--the flowers," said she, lifting her head from the sweet-peas she
was tying up to their sticks.
The woodman did not answer; he leaned over the half-open wicket, and
swayed it backwards and forwards under his bare arm. He was a good,
harmless, gentle fellow, swarthy as charcoal and simple as a child, and
quite ignorant, having spent all his days in the great Soignies forests
making fagots when he was a little lad, and hewing down trees or burning
charcoal as he grew to manhood.
"Who was that seigneur with you last night, Bebee?" he asked, after a
long silence, watching her as she moved.
Bebee's eyes grew very soft, but they looked up frankly.
"I am not sure--I think he is a painter--a great painter prince, I
mean--as Rubes was in Antwerpen; he wanted roses the night before last in
the cathedral."
"But he was walking with you?"
"He was in the lane as I came home last night--yes."
"What does he give you for your roses?"
"Oh! he pays me well. How is your mother this day, Jeannot?"
"You do not like to talk of him?"
"Why should you want to talk of him? He is nothing to you.
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