“How do you know he never came out?”
“I didn’t see him.”
“Ah! then you were watching?”
“Well, what if I was! The devil has a hand in it.”
“I have no doubt,” said Cuerrier, insinuatingly.
“Enough, fool!” exclaimed the widow—“but wait, I have not done yet!”
“You had better rest, or you will have the law on you.”
The widow was afraid of the law.
About six months after this, when the snow was coming on, a messenger came from the city with a telegram for Monsieur Cuerrier—at least, it was in his care. He very seldom went out, but he got his boots and went across to Mademoiselle Viau’s. The telegram was for her. When she had read it she crushed it in her hand and leaned against the wall. But she recovered herself.
“Monsieur Cuerrier, you have always been a good friend to me—help me! I must go away—you will watch my little place when I am gone!”