She shook her head dolefully while she began to lay the cloth for supper.
Jaume Deydier had thrown his coat across his shoulders, thrust his cap on his head and picked up a stout stick and a storm lanthorn, then he went down into the valley. It was raining now, a cold, unpleasant rain mixed with snow, and the tramontane blew mercilessly from way over Vaucluse. Deydier muttered a real oath this time, and turned up the road in the direction of the château. It was very dark and the rain beat all around his shoulders: but when he thought of Bertrand de Ventadour, he gripped his stick more tightly, and he ceased to be conscious of the wet or the cold.
He had reached the sharp bend in the road where the stony bridle-path, springing at a right angle, led up to the gates of the château, and he was on the point of turning up the path when he heard his name called close behind him:
“Hey, Mossou Deydier! Is that you?”
He turned and found himself face to face with Pérone, old Madame’s confidential maid—a person whom he could not abide.
“Are you going up to the château, Mossou Deydier?” the woman went on with an ugly note of obsequiousness in her harsh voice.
“Yes,” Deydier replied curtly, and would have gone on, on his way, but Pérone suddenly took hold of him by the coat.
“Mossou Deydier,” she said pitiably, “it would be only kind to a poor old woman, if you would let her walk with you. It is so lonely and so dark. I have come all the way from Manosque. I waited there for awhile, thinking the rain would give over. It was quite fine when I left home directly after dinner.”
Deydier let her talk on. He could not bear the woman, but he was man enough not to let her struggle on in the dark behind him, whilst he had his lanthorn to guide his own footsteps up the uneven road; and so they walked on side by side for a minute or two, until Pérone said suddenly:
“I hope Mademoiselle Nicolette has reached home by now. I told her——”