"
The tune became gradually indistinguishable as the Chouans got further
away; but the silence of the country was so great that several of the
notes reached Barbette's ear as she neared home, holding her boy by
the hand. A peasant-woman never listens coldly to that song, so
popular is it in the West of France, and Barbette began,
unconsciously, to sing the first verses:--
"Come, let us go, my girl,
Let us go to the war;
Let us go, it is time.
"Brave captain,
Let it not trouble you,
But my daughter is not for you.
"You shall not have her on earth,
You shall not have her at sea,
Unless by treachery.
"The father took his daughter,
He unclothed her
And flung her out to sea.
"The captain, wiser still,
Into the waves he jumped
And to the shore he brought her.
"Come, let us go, my girl,
Let us go to the war;
Let us go, it is time.
"At the first town
Her lover dressed her,"
Etc., etc.
As Barbette reached this verse of the song, where Pille-Miche had
begun it, she was entering the courtyard of her home; her tongue
suddenly stiffened, she stood still, and a great cry, quickly
repressed, came from her gaping lips.
"What is it, mother?" said the child.
"Walk alone," she cried, pulling her hand away and pushing him
roughly; "you have neither father nor mother.
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