"Does she treat you properly?" went on Cartier.
"Well, to tell you the truth, she is not very polite at times, but I would not blame her. She always looks so sad, and, as you say, worse than ever just now. Perhaps she's ensorchelai, who can say!"
"I've thought of that—perhaps I'll get her to tell me. Well, this is your way—so à bientôt, Perrin, à bientôt!"
Corbet made his way to his home, a cottage not far from the outskirts of the moorland at whose edge stood the Haunted House. He lived with his mother, a widow and an invalid. She hardly ever left the cottage, but she made it a palace of happiness to her son. Her lovely placid old face brooded over his every want and his every look. She lived the life of a saint and had brought up her son to fear God and none else. Perrin's religious life was a deep reality to him: he never spoke of it, but in it he moved, at home, in the conscious joy of the presence of God.
Every night, when his mother had gone to bed in her tiny attic, he knelt long beside the jonquière in the corner of the hearth: and every night he prayed for Ellenor, naming her softly after the beloved word "mother."
But this night. Ellenor was first on his lips. Why was she unhappy? Why was she so unkind to the father she loved? Ah, if one could see right through her dark eyes into her sorrowful heart, one might have a chance of comforting her! But, as it was, one felt useless and blundering.
His head bent lower. Broken words came from his lips. A deep mysterious silence held the man in awe. It was as though One stood beside him while he prayed. And to that One he spoke of Ellenor.
At that very hour she was running quickly along the high road to Orvillière. The moon, full and soft as pearl, rode high in the cloudless sky. The stars glinted like silver fires. But the beauty of the night was lost upon Ellenor. It seemed to her as if she would never reach her destination. At last, at last, she was at the top of the valley which sloped to the farm! As she ran down hill, she could hear the sound of music and the ring of laughter. The Grand Plough supper, the finale of the day's work and feasting, was evidently in full swing. When she reached the house she crept up to one of the windows and peered in. The hired fiddler and man with the flute and the man with the "serpent" sat on the jonquière. The kitchen was full of people, eating and drinking round a long table covered with great pieces of meat and puddings of every description.
At the head of the table was Dominic Le Mierre, evidently the worse for drink, which, however had not made him idiotic, but which had maddened him into wild and extravagant excitement. Beside him was Blaisette Simon, dressed in a quaint muslin gown which accentuated her childlike and piquante beauty. Her father, easy-going Mess' Simon, looked on smilingly at the orgie around him, and seemed not in the least disturbed when Dominic drew his arms round Blaisette and kissed her repeatedly. She gave an affected little scream and pretended to be shocked, but Dominic laughed all the louder, and cried to all the guests to drink her health.
And all the while, Ellenor looked on with wide eyes of jealousy. In the presence of Dominic she forgot all goodness, all restraint, she only longed passionately to be in the place of Blaisette. Not in the least knowing what she did, she opened the house door and entered the kitchen. At first she was not noticed, so great was the noise and misrule. Suddenly Blaisette caught sight of her, and pointed her out to Dominic with a foolish giggle.