Honoré rose, and going to the sideboard brought back a pitcher of water.
“I think you might have given us some wine, father.”
Whereupon Fouchard, now master of himself and no longer fearing that this anger might lead him into unguarded speech, once more found his tongue.
“Wine! I haven’t any, not a drop! The others, those fellows of Ducrot’s, ate and drank all I had, robbed me of everything!”
He was lying, and try to conceal it as he might the shifty expression in his great light eyes showed it. For the past two days he had been driving away his cattle, as well those reserved for work on the farm as those he had purchased to slaughter, and hiding them, no one knew where, in the depths of some wood or in some abandoned quarry, and he had devoted hours to burying all his household stores, wine, bread, and things of the least value, even to the flour and salt, so that anyone might have ransacked his cupboards and been none the richer for it. He had refused to sell anything to the first soldiers who came along; no one knew, he might be able to do better later on; and the patient, sly old curmudgeon indulged himself with vague dreams of wealth.
Maurice, who was first to satisfy his appetite, commenced to talk.
“Have you seen my sister Henriette lately?”
The old man was pacing up and down the room, casting an occasional glance at Jean, who was bolting huge mouthfuls of bread; after apparently giving the subject long consideration he deliberately answered:
“Henriette, yes, I saw her last month when I was in Sedan. But I saw Weiss, her husband, this morning. He was with Monsieur Delaherche, his boss, who had come over in his carriage to see the soldiers at Mouzon—which is the same as saying that they were out for a good time.”
An expression of intense scorn flitted over the old peasant’s impenetrable face.