She rose from her knees with one clasped handful of rubble. Slowly and thoughtfully she climbed the hill again. On the terrace, where she arrived hot and tired, the widow Andrei met her. The woman had been to the village on an errand, and had returned during mademoiselle's absence.
“The Abbé Susini awaits you in the library,” she said. “He asked for you and not for mademoiselle, who has gone to her own garden.”
Mademoiselle hurried into the library. The arrival of the abbé at this moment seemed providential, though the explanation of it was simple enough.
“I came,” he said, looking at her keenly, “on a fool's errand. I came to ask whether the ladies were afraid.”
Mademoiselle gave a chilly smile.
“The ladies were not afraid, Monsieur l'Abbé,” she said. “They were terrified—since you ask.”
She went to a side-table and brought a newspaper; for even in her excitement she was scrupulously tidy. She laid it on the table in front of the abbé, rather awkwardly with her left hand, and then, holding her right over the newspaper, she suddenly opened it, and let fall a little heap of stones and soil. Some of the stones had a singular rounded appearance.
The abbé treated her movements with the kindly interest offered at the shrine of childhood or imbecility. It was evident that he supposed that the landslip had unhinged Mademoiselle Brun's reason.
“What is that?” he asked soothingly, contemplating the mineral trophy.
“I think,” answered mademoiselle, “that it is the explanation.”