She was silent, and the corners of her mouth seemed to be drawn down lower than usual.
"Fearful things!" murmured the shoemaker, more and more surprised, for he had never seen the farm-mistress in such a state before, "but what sort, Catherine, what sort?"
"Dreams that I have had!"
"Dreams! you must be laughing at me, surely!"
"No."
Then, after a moment's silence, looking at the wonderstruck Hullin, she went on slowly:
"Yesterday evening, then, after supper, all our people were assembled in the kitchen, round the fire. The table was still covered with the empty bowls, platters, and spoons. Yégof had supped with us, and been diverting us with the history of his treasures, his castles, and his provinces. It might be then about nine o'clock—the fool had just seated himself in the corner, beside the blazing hearth. Duchêne, my labourer, was botching Bruno's saddle; the shepherd, Robin, was weaving a basket; Annette was arranging her pots and pans on the dresser, while I had brought my wheel to the fire to spin a hank before going to bed. Out of doors, the dogs were barking at the moon; it must have been very cold. Well, there we all were, talking about the winter that was coming; Duchêne was saying that it would be very hard, for he had seen large flocks of wild geese, which is a sure sign: and Yégof's raven, perched on the edge of the chimney-piece, his great head buried in his ruffled plumes, seemed to be asleep; but from time to time he stretched out his neck, preened a feather or two with his bill, then looked at us, listening for a second, and again plunged his head between his shoulders."
The farm-mistress was silent for a moment, as if to collect her thoughts. She cast down her eyes; her long, hooked nose bent itself almost to her lips, and a strange paleness seemed to spread over her face.
"What on earth is she driving at?" said Hullin to himself.
The old woman went on: