"He is not such a bad man, after all," thought Jacques.
He was now climbing the mountain, and it was a hard struggle for
his little legs. Every now and then he heard what he thought was a
moan in the distance,--the breaking of a limb under the weight of
the snow. Look as he would through all those branches, he could not
see a single blackbird, nor even a jay. Not a little mouse ran along
the slope. A few intrepid sparrows alone, black spots on the white
ground, hopped about in search of food.
Measuring his steps to the time, Jacques began to sing in a low
tone,--
"He is born, the Heavenly Child,--"
and walked along with a great effort, leaning forward. He sunk into
hollows where the snow was deep. He knew that he was not far from
the copse of the Prévoté, so he took courage, though he stubbed his
foot against the hard, concealed ruts, and tumbled into holes. Father
Monhache was right; there was surely no lack of dead wood at the
copse of the Prévoté.
Over the shivering heather and the crouching brier, lay the fallen
branches in their furrows. Jacques fell to work; and how he toiled!
He had taken off his cloak, that his movements might be freer. His
legs sunk deep in the snow. His hands and his arms were drenched and
chilled, while his face was hot and wet with perspiration. He would
stop every minute or two to look at his pile of wood, and think of
the bright flame it would make in the hut.
When he had all he could carry, he tied it in a fagot, threw his
cloak over his shoulders, and started along the shortest cut to the
village. His legs trembled. Now and then he was compelled to stop and
lean against a tree.