At this moment, Tortillard, stooping to the ground, exclaimed, in a low voice:
"I hear footsteps in the path; let us hide; it is not the young miss, for they come the same way as she did."
On the instant, a stout peasant girl in the prime of youth, followed by a large shepherd's dog, carrying on her head an open basket, appeared, and followed the same path which the priest and the Goualeuse had taken. We will rejoin the two latter, leaving the three accomplices concealed in the hollow of the path.
CHAPTER V.
THE RECTORY-HOUSE.
The last rays of the sun were gradually disappearing behind the vast pile of the Château d'Ecouen and the woods which surrounded it. On all sides, until the sight lost them in the distance, were vast tracts of land lying in brown furrows hardened by the frost—an extensive desert, of which the hamlet of Bouqueval appeared to be the oasis. The sky, which was serenely glorious, was tinted by the sunset, and glowed with long lines of empurpled light, the certain token of wind and cold. These tints, which were at first of a deep red, became violet; then a bluish black, as the twilight grew more and more dark on the atmosphere. The crescent of the moon was as delicately and clearly defined as a silver ring, and began to shine beautifully in the midst of the blue and dimmed sky, where many stars already had appeared. The silence was profound; the hour most solemn. The curate stopped for a moment on the summit of the acclivity to enjoy the calm of this delicious evening. After some minutes' reflection, he extended his trembling hand towards the depths of the horizon, half veiled by the shadows of the evening, and said to Fleur-de-Marie, who was walking pensively beside him:
"Look, my child, at the vastness and extent to which we have no visible limit; we hear not the slightest sound. Say, does not this silence give us an idea of infinity and of eternity? I say this to you, Marie, because you are peculiarly sensitive of the beauties of creation. I have often been struck at the admiration, alike poetical and religious, with which they inspire you,—you, a poor prisoner so long deprived of them. Are you not, as I am, struck with the solemn tranquillity of the hour?"
The Goualeuse made no reply. The curé, regarding her with astonishment, found she was weeping.