“Ox! I would fell you to the earth were I able. As it is, you shall see. I owe you something, but not thanks, and I will have my payment for the pains I have endured, and the payment I shall take will be mademoiselle herself.”
Lendert made a sudden movement, at which François gave a cry of pain. “Stupid ox! to make a misstep! However, it goes in with the rest, but the payment is sure; digest that with your grass and hay and stubble, ox.” He sank heavily into the chair ready for him inside. The hum of the wheel was scarcely stilled, but Alaine had vanished. Lendert smiled to himself and went out.
“Good mother,” he said, when he had found Michelle, “your patient yonder needs you.”
“And you?” she asked.
“I am beyond the necessity of your kind ministrations. I depart. I may not return for some time, but I take my leave with many thanks, and I shall never forget. Remember, good Mother Mercier, that here is a friend if you ever have need of one.”
“And you go at once?”
“Before night.”
Michelle kissed him on each cheek. “Adieu then, my friend, may good fortune attend you.”
CHAPTER IX
THREE PARTINGS
Alaine, singing in the garden where she was gathering some late vegetables, saw Lendert coming. She had longed, yet dreaded to see him again. The color flew to her face as he drew near, and she moved away a few steps. “If you will stay there and help me with these beans I will tell you more of myself, some things which you do not know,” she said.