At last she turned her attention to her work.
Not another word was spoken on the subject that day.
Neither of them ate much that evening. It was almost impossible for Adèle to swallow anything. What she attempted to eat, stuck in her throat. Her father, who was seated near the fire in his accustomed place, seemed also to have lost his appetite.
At last, he thrust his food away from him with a gesture of impatience, and began moodily to contemplate the embers that were glowing in the grate. When nine o'clock—his usual hour for retiring—struck, Adèle helped him into the parlour.
It was there on a sofa that he insisted on sleeping while his foot hurt him as it now did.
While the conversation was going on between father and daughter, Frank was crossing the fields near "Les Marches," and soon found himself beneath Adèle's window. It was open. He took out his pocket book, and hastily writing a few lines on a leaf, tore off the piece of paper, rolled it into a ball, and threw it straight through the window.
Then he cautiously glided away.
When Adèle retired for the night, she did not perceive the ball of paper that lay on the floor of her room. Her brain was so occupied with her thoughts that it failed to fulfil its functions towards the eyes.
She fixed her optics for a moment on the crumpled piece of paper, but she saw it not. She was undressing, but she knew it not; she did it mechanically, as if by instinct. Her thoughts were with her father and the unhappy home she was condemned to share with him. Home! alas! it was more like a hell. She shuddered at the thought. She was of a naturally quiet temperament, and she abhorred these awful scenes.
She earnestly hoped that the time would soon come when she would once more sail in smooth waters.