“A la bonne heure—Sophie!”
“Oh, it isn’t—it isn’t right,” she said, her body slightly inclining from him.
“One minute out of a whole life—What does it matter! Ce ne fait rien! Good-bye-Sophie.”
Now she inclined towards him. He was about to put his arms round her, when he heard the distant sound of a horse’s hoofs. He let her go, and turned towards the front door. Through it he saw Christine driving up the road. She would pass the house.
“Good-bye-Sophie,” he said again over her shoulder, softly; and, picking up his hat and stick, he left the house.
Her eyes followed him dreamily as he went up the road. She sat down in a chair, the trance of the passionate moment still on her, and began to brood. She vaguely heard the rattle of a buggy—Christine’s—as it passed the house, and her thoughts drifted into a new-discovered hemisphere where life was all a somnolent sort of joy and bodily love.
She was roused at last by a song which came floating across the fields. The air she knew, and the voice she knew. The chanson was, “Le Voleur de grand Chemin!” The voice was her husband’s.
She knew the words, too; and even before she could hear them, they were fitting into the air:
“Qui va la! There’s some one in the orchard,
There’s a robber in the apple-trees;
Qui va la! He is creeping through the doorway.
Ah, allez-vous-en! Va-t’-en!”
She hurriedly put away the cordial and the seed-cakes. She picked up the bottle. It was empty. Ferrol had drunk near half a pint of the liqueur! She must get another bottle of it somehow. It would never do for Magon to know that the precious anniversary cordial was all gone—in this way.