ElÉonore had suffered herself to be persuaded. She had left her home. Weak, and easily led, she had for months past listened too readily to the promptings of vanity and laziness, which, censured by her father at La FromentiÈre, could be yielded to at will in the town. To have no more baking to do, no more cows to milk, to be in some sort a lady, to wear a hat trimmed with ribbons—such were the reasons for which she went out into the unknown, with only her brother, who would be away all day, for protector. ElÉonore had yielded from force of example, and in complete ignorance of the step she was taking. Thus she cast herself adrift, and exposed herself to life in a suburb, to the familiarities of frequenters of the cafÉ, without dreaming of its dangers, with the utter ignorance of the peasant who knows nothing beyond the troubles incidental to life in the country.

The separation was accomplished. At the moment that the farmer drove away, intent upon the hope of still recovering his children, ElÉonore had hurriedly left the shelter of the barn where she had been hiding, and, despite the entreaties of Marie-Rose and even of Mathurin, going from room to room she had hurriedly collected the little store of personal clothing and trinkets belonging to her. To all Rousille's pleading, as to the calmer adjurations of Mathurin, she had replied:

"It is FranÇois' wish, my dears! I cannot tell if I shall be happy; but it is too late now. My promise is given."

She was so greatly in fear of seeing her father come back that she was almost frenzied with haste. Quickly she made up her bundle, went out from La FromentiÈre, and reached the hollow road, where, crouching beneath the hedge, she waited for the steam tram that runs between FromentiÈre and Chalons. There some hours later FranÇois was to rejoin her.

Meanwhile the farmer, driving La Rousse at her greatest speed, had returned home.

"ElÉonore!" he had cried.

"Gone," Mathurin had answered.

Then, half-mad with grief, the old man had flung the reins across the steaming beast, and without a word of explanation had stridden away in the direction of Sallertaine. Had he been actuated by a last hope and idea? Or did his deserted house inspire him with dread?

Night was falling. He had not yet returned. A damp, encircling mist, silent as death, enveloped all around. In the living-room of La FromentiÈre, beside the fire that no one tended, beside the simmering pot that murmured as if in low plaint, the two remaining inmates of the farm sat watching, but how differently! Rousille, nervous, burning with fever, could not keep still; she was for ever rising from her chair, clasping her hands, and murmuring: "My God, my God!" then going to the open door to look out, shivering, into the dark, thick night.

"Listen!" she said.

The cripple listened, then said:

"It is the goatherd of Malabrit taking home his flock."

"Listen again!"

A distant sound of barking, borne on the silent air, died away in the stillness.

"That is not Bas-Rouge's bark," returned Mathurin.

So from hour to hour, and minute to minute, a step, a cry, the rolling of a vehicle, would keep their senses on the alert.

What were they expecting? Their father, who came not. But Rousille, younger, more credulous, was expecting the others too, or if not both, at least one, either FranÇois or ElÉonore, who, repentant—was it too much to hope—had come back. Oh, what joy it would be, what rapture to see one of them! It seemed as if the other would have the right to go if one came back to take his place in the home. The young girl felt raised out of herself as a vague sense of duty came over her; she, the only woman, the only one to act in her deserted home.

Mathurin sat in a stooping posture by the hearth, his feet wrapped in a rug, the glow of the fire reddening the beard crushed beneath his chin. For hours he had sat so, never moving, speaking as little as possible; from time to time tears rolled down his cheeks; at other times Rousille, looking at him, was astonished to see the shadow of a smile cross his face—a smile she could in nowise understand.

Nine o'clock struck.

"Mathurin," exclaimed the girl, "I am afraid that some misfortune has befallen father."

"He may be talking over his trouble with the CurÉ, or the Mayor."

"So I tell myself; yet, all the same, I am frightened."

"That's because you are not accustomed to wait as I am. What do you want to do?"

"To go towards Sallertaine to meet him."

"Go, if you like."

Rousille ran to her room to get her black cloak. When she came back, looking like a little nun, she found that Mathurin had thrown off the rug, and was standing up. His crutches were lying on the ground, and by an effort of will he stood nearly upright, resting one hand on the table, the other on the back of his chair. He looked at his sister with an air of pride and of suppressed pain, perspiration standing on his forehead.

"Rousille," he said, "what should you do if father did not come back?"

"Oh, don't say such things," she exclaimed, covering her eyes with her hand. "And do not exert yourself to stand like that; you make me feel quite ill!"

"Well, I," continued Mathurin gravely, "should take the management here. I feel strong enough. I feel that I am recovering."

"Sit down; sit down, I beg of you. You will fall."

But he remained standing until she reached the door. Scarce had she crossed the threshold before she heard the human mass sink together with a groan. She turned back, saw that he was in a sitting posture on the chair, pressing both hands to his side, doubtless to still his fast-beating heart; then noiselessly, timid as a fawn rising out of the bracken, she ran into the courtyard, and out on to the road.

The rising moon had lessened the mist, already one could see a considerable distance; in another hour it would be clear moonlight. Avoiding the shade of the hedges, Marie-Rose followed the middle of the path that, leading past the dwarf orchard, skirted the meadows; she was frightened, almost running, nor did she slacken speed until she reached the edge of the Marais, where the road suddenly widening like a river that falls into the sea, mingled its grasses with those of the marshland. Then, reassured by the moonlight, she stood still and listened. Where could her father be?

She hoped to hear footsteps on the road, or even Bas-Rouge's bark. But no; in the dream-like mist that incessantly formed and dispersed about her, amid the dim moving lights and shadows around, there was but one sound, that of the distant roll of the sea against the shores of La VendÉe. She was about to turn, follow the dyke to reach the bridge of Sallertaine and its familiar houses, when a well-known whistle, like that of a plover, met her ear. Could it be possible?

The young girl's blood rushed to her heart; she stopped short in rapture and astonishment, without strength to look behind her. Motionless she stood, listening to the coming of one her heart had recognised. He came by the road she had come, from the thickets of La FromentiÈre. Erect, trembling, she stood on the grass-grown road, felt two hands placed on her shoulders, then a rush of air that moved the right side of her cloak, and a man had lightly sprung in front of her, with the words:

"It is I, Rousille. I have not frightened you?"

There he was in his brown coat, stick in hand, looking well pleased at his piece of audacity.

Notwithstanding her distress, Rousille could not repress a cry of joy. A smile rose to her face like an air bubble on troubled waters that none can hinder, and that widens as it goes. "Oh how happy I am!" she said. But then quickly resumed: "No, I am wrong to speak like that. You do not know of our trouble at home. FranÇois has gone, ElÉonore has gone; I am all alone there, and I have come out to find father, who has not come home. I have no time to spare for you, Jean Nesmy. It would be wrong!"

He watched the smile fade from her face in the moonlight; and as she drew her cloak about her to resume her way, he said hurriedly:

"I know all, Rousille. For the last three days I have been at Chalons trying to find a situation as near here as possible. I have not found one. But this evening I heard of FranÇois' going; it is the talk of the town in one way and another. I ran at once to La FromentiÈre, keeping out of sight. I watched you in the garden, in the barn. Since sundown I have heard you crying; but the farmer was the only one I saw go out."

"Where is he—at Sallertaine?"

"No; he went, but came back. I was in hiding about here. He passed just where we are now standing, and he was gesticulating and talking to himself as if he were demented."

Terrified, she asked:

"Was that long ago?"

"A quarter of an hour."

"Which way did he go?"

Jean Nesmy pointed in the direction of the mainland, and to the wooden heights further away.

"To the grounds of the ChÂteau, I believe. He jumped the fence some hundred yards from here."

"Thanks and good-bye, Jean. I must go."

But he, taking her hand, grew very grave in his turn.

"Yes," he replied, "I know quite well—but myself—soon you will have me no longer. To-morrow I am going home to the Bocage; and I came back to ask you one thing, Rousille. What shall I say to my mother to-morrow when she asks me, 'Is it really true that she loves you? What word of plighted troth did she give you when you parted? My poor Jean, when true-hearted girls see their sweethearts going away from them they say some word that is as binding as a betrothal ring, something to comfort him in absence. What did she of La FromentiÈre say to you?' If you have said no word, she will not believe me!"

The dim solitude enveloping them threw their shadows faintly on the grey grass. Rousille, her sweetheart's glowing eyes fixed upon her, answered sadly:

"Do not come back until Driot is well settled at home. Some months hence, in mid-winter, if our neighbours who frequent your markets tell you that he is working like a true farmer, that he is to be seen at fairs and gatherings, above all, that he is courting a girl at Sallertaine, then come back and speak to father. My father will not hear of a Boquin for son-in-law; but if I will have no other husband than you—if AndrÉ speaks for me, who can tell? Father spoke well of you after you went."

"Really, Rousille? What did he say?"

"No, not now. I must be going. Good-bye."

He raised his hat with a natural courtesy that sat well upon him; nor did he seek to detain her longer.

Already Rousille, turning her back upon Sallertaine, was running across the meadow; she had reached the last bushes that border the Marais, her cloak fluttering in the mist. For more than a minute after she had disappeared beyond the fence Jean Nesmy remained motionless, on the same spot, where the words she had spoken were still ringing in his ears. Then slowly, as one learning by heart who looks not about him, he took his way towards Sallertaine and on from thence to Chalons. His heart sang with joy as he repeated to himself: "In mid-winter, if our neighbours who frequent your markets tell you that he is working like a true farmer, come back...."

The one thing he saw on the road to Chalons was that the topmost leaves of the willows were already turning yellow, and that the branches were growing leafless.

Rousille, through a gap in the fence, had made her way into a stubble field, thence through a narrow belt of wood. Then finding that she was in the gravel walk of an avenue, she paused, terrified by the solitude, and seized by the instinctive respect for the seigniorial domain, where even then her people ventured but rarely, from fear of displeasing the Marquis. She was in the outskirts of the park. On all sides, lit by the peaceful light of the moon, were sloping lawns, broken now by groups of forest-trees forming islands of black shade, now disappearing in the blue mist of distance. Sometimes in light, sometimes in shadow, Rousille followed the path, her eyes on the watch, her heart beating wildly. She was seeking marks of footsteps on the gravel; straining to see objects amid the dense thickets. Was that her father over there, that dark form through the wood? No, it was but the pile of a fence overgrown with brambles. Everywhere thorn-bushes, roots, dead branches impeded the moss-grown paths. How neglect had grown with years! The master absent, all was deserted, gone to waste. As she pursued her way, Rousille began to realise more keenly her sorrow at her brother's and sister's flight. They too, perhaps, would never come back to their home; fear in her gave place to grief.

Suddenly, the path winding round a clump of cedars, she found herself in front of the ChÂteau, with its huge main building flanked by towers and pointed roofs, on which the weather-cocks that once told the direction of the wind were now motionless with rust. Night owls were silently chasing each other round the gables; the windows were shut, the ground-floor secured with shutters strongly battened.

Anxious as she was, the young girl could not but stop for a moment to look at the melancholy pile, stained by winter rains, already as grey as any ruin; and as she stood there on the broad carriage-drive, her ear detected a distant murmur of words.

"It is father," she thought without a moment's hesitation.

He was sitting some hundred yards away from the ChÂteau, on a bench that Rousille knew well, placed in the half-bend of a group of birches, and called by the country people the bench of the Marquise. Bent double, his head resting on his hands, the old man was looking at the ChÂteau and down the avenues that sloped towards the Marais. Under the shadow of the birches Rousille drew nearer to him, and as she came closer, she began to distinguish the words he was saying, like a refrain: "Monsieur le Marquis! Monsieur le Marquis!" And as she hastened over the soft turf which deadened her footsteps, Rousille had the horrible dread that her father was mad. No, it was not that, but grief, fatigue, and hunger, of which he was unconscious, had excited his brain. Finding neither help nor support anywhere, in his despair instinct and habit had brought him to the door of the ChÂteau, where so often before he had come in sure hope of relief. He had lost all knowledge of time, and only continued to address his lament, "Monsieur le Marquis! Monsieur le Marquis!" to the ears of the master too distant to pay heed. The girl, throwing back the hood of her cloak, said softly so as not to startle him:

"Father, it is Rousille. I have been looking for you for an hour. Father, it is late—come!"

The old farmer shuddered, looking at her with absent eyes that saw not present objects.

"Only think," he said, "the Marquis is not here, Rousille. My house is going to ruin, and he is not here to defend me. He should come back when I am in trouble, should he not?"

"Of course, father, but he does not know of it; he is far away, in Paris."

"The others, the people of Sallertaine, they can do nothing for us because they are humble folks like ourselves, who have no authority beyond their farms. I have been to the Mayor, to Guerineau, to de la PinÇonniÈre, le Glorieux, de la Terre-Aymont. They sent me away with empty words. But the Marquis, Rousille, when he comes back—when he knows all! Perhaps to-morrow?"

"Perhaps."

"Then he will not leave me alone in my grief. He will help me; he will give me back FranÇois—eh, child? will he not give me back FranÇois?"

His voice was raised; the shrill words struck against the walls of the ChÂteau, that sent them echoing back in softened accents to the avenues, the lawns, until they were lost in the forest. The still, pure night listened as they died away, as it listened to the rustle of insects in the thickets.

Rousille, seeing her father in so great distress, sat down beside him, and talked to him for a while, trying to inspire a hope which she did not feel. And, possibly, a calming influence, a consoling power emanated from her, for when she said: "There is Mathurin at home, father, waiting for you," of his own accord he rose, and took his daughter's arm. For a long while he looked into the face of his pretty little Rousille, so pale with emotion and fatigue.

"True," he replied, "there is Mathurin. We must go."

And together they passed in front of the ChÂteau, turned into the avenue leading towards the servants' offices, and thence into the fields belonging to the farm. As they neared La FromentiÈre, Rousille felt that the farmer was gradually recovering his self-control, and when they were in the courtyard, with a rush of pity for the cripple, Rousille said:

"Father, Mathurin is very unhappy too. Do not talk much to him of your distress."

Hereupon the farmer, whose courage and clear reasoning had revived, passed his hand over his eyes, and preceding Rousille, pushed open the door of the house-place, where his crippled son lay stretched deep in thought, beside the nearly burnt-out candle.

"Mathurin, my son," he said, "do not worry overmuch ... they have gone, but our Driot will soon be home again!"