They went to rest early that night, and by eleven next morning the last
good-bye had been said. Pretty Babette was seated by the side of Farmer
Jean, with her baby boy, wrapped up in numerous shawls, clasped tightly
to her, and the great Flemish horses were plodding, slowly but surely,
towards "Les Trois Frères".

The day was not as bright as the preceding one. Snow had fallen during
the night, and the sky looked heavy, as though there were more to come.
Babette shivered, in spite of her long, warm cloak. The roads were
freezing hard, but they managed to proceed for a mile or two, and then
suddenly there came a sway and a lurch, for one of the horses had
slipped and fallen on the snowy road, and the other was trying to free
himself from his struggling companion by frantic kicks and plunges.

Farmer Jean had a man with him, and between them they got the poor
animal up, while Babette stood in the cold highway, her baby peeping
wonderingly from the folds of her cloak.

The horse was bruised and cut about the knees, but otherwise unhurt, so
the men resumed their places; Babette climbed back to hers, and the
heavy cart went jolting on. The farmer cracked his whip, and whenever
the road grew worse he or his man got down and led the horses. In spite
of this, their progress grew slower and slower.

"I don't like to say so," said the master, "but we've two more miles to
go, and it is past one o'clock now. My girl, if the coach is gone, I'll
get you back and drive you in again next time it passes."

But Babette would not hear of this. Not to see Paul by nightfall! Not to
be clasped in his arms, she and little Pierre together, in one warm