The old woman raised her eyes and gazed at Genestas.
“Ah! sir,” she said, “he has left his property to our poor countryside, and made all of us his heirs; but we have lost him who was worth more than all, for it was he who made everything turn out well for us.”
“Good-bye, mother! Pray for him,” said Genestas, making a few playful cuts at the children with his riding-whip.
The old woman and her little charges went out with him; they watched him mount his horse and ride away.
He followed the road along the valley until he reached the bridle-path that led to La Fosseuse’s cottage. From the slope above the house he saw that the door was fastened and the shutters closed. In some anxiety he returned to the highway, and rode on under the poplars, now bare and leafless. Before long he overtook the old laborer, who was dressed in his Sunday best, and creeping slowly along the road. There was no bag of tools on his shoulder.
“Good-day, old Moreau!”
“Ah! good-day, sir.... I mind who you are now!” the old fellow exclaimed after a moment. “You are a friend of monsieur, our late mayor! Ah! sir, would it not have been far better if God had only taken a poor rheumatic old creature like me instead? It would not have mattered if He had taken me, but HE was the light of our eyes.”
“Do you know how it is that there is no one at home up there at La Fosseuse’s cottage?”
The old man gave a look at the sky.
“What time is it, sir? The sun has not shone all day,” he said.