"You will come early and put them on," said he; "your musket and knapsack have been in the rack since morning."
"Come with me," said I.
"No, I cannot, the sight of Catherine breaks my heart; and besides I must stay with my father. Who knows whether I shall find the old man alive at the end of a year? I promised to take supper with you, but I shall not go."
I was obliged to go home alone. My haversack was all ready; my old haversack, the only thing I had saved from Hanau, as my head rested on it in the wagon. Mr. Goulden was at work. He turned round without speaking, and I asked, "Where is Catherine?"
"She is upstairs."
I knew she was crying, and I wanted to go up, but my legs and my courage both failed me.
I told Mr. Goulden of my visit to Quatre-Vents, and then we sat and waited, thinking, without daring to look each other in the face. It was already dark when Catherine came down. She laid the table in the twilight, and then I took her hand, and made her sit down on my knee, and we remained so for half an hour.
Then Mr. Goulden asked:
"Is not Zébédé coming?"
"No, he cannot come."