In the evening when, in the small boudoir which had been made habitable, the lamps were lit and a fire burned in the tall hearth, when the shutters were closed and chairs drawn nearer to one another, the place looked a trifle less desolate. Matthieu Renard and his wife Annette had thrown up their work under the farmers and cultivators whom they despised, and returned to serve the masters, whom even in their poverty they recognized as alone worthy of their services. Annette had cooked a good dinner, Matthieu had unearthed a bottle of wine from a disused cellar, which had almost miraculously escaped perquisition. The world did not appear so callous or so inimical as it had done earlier in the day.
"What about Ronnay?" M. de Courson had asked as soon as Matthieu and Annette had gone and the doors were closed on the intimate family circle.
"What about him?" retorted Mme. la Marquise. The sound of her eldest son's name grated unpleasantly on her ear.
"Does he know you have arrived?"
"Yes. I have written to him."
"So soon?"
"There was no object in wasting time. He and I will have to meet within the next few days. I want to get that first meeting over."
"You have asked him to come here?"
"Of course."
"Do you think that he will come?"