"So it is, already!" said Madame Kerouët, as she looked at the clock.
Usually, when I started to go, Marie would go to the window to see what sort of weather it was. This evening she remained motionless.
Her aunt said to her: "Why don't you look to see if it is snowing, my child?"
Marie rose up and came back, saying, "It is snowing hard."
"It snows hard. What a heartless way you say that! You don't seem to remember that M. Arthur has three leagues to ride in the pitch-dark, and right through the forest."
I tried to meet Marie's eyes. She turned away her head; so I said to her, sadly, "Bon soir, madame."
"Bon soir, M. Arthur," she replied, without looking at me.
I heard the impatient whinnying of Black; the farm boy was bringing him from the stable. I was just leaving the room, when Marie, seizing an opportunity when her aunt was not looking, came close to me, and, taking my hand, said, with deep emotion:
"I am very angry with you. You do not know how much you have distressed me!"
The words were not precisely an avowal; and yet, in spite of the dark, in spite of the storm, I rode back to Serval with a joyful heart.