Standing quiet at his post of observation he saw the shadows of the workers, dark against the sunset, grow smaller and then disappear. Their voices rose to him from below. They separated into two groups, those from Vimines and Saint Cassin, respectively. These latter, whose path lay to the left, began to sing: a rustic chorus with a long-drawn close. Already the sun just touched the mountains. At the master’s side old Fauchois never stirred, claiming nothing.
“Pierrette,” said Mr. Roquevillard abruptly.
She thrust her head forward, showing features not so much old as sorrowful and broken.
“Yes, Master Francis,” she murmured.
“Here are one hundred sous. Go home and have some good soup.”
“It’s three days’ work,” said the poor creature, staring at the crown piece that lay white in her shrivelled hand, “and I’ve only earned one.”
“Take your pay, always. And your daughter. How’s she?”
“She’s gone to Lyons.”
“Does she work there?”
The old woman let her two arms fall at her sides, and said nothing.