"It was yesterday," he said, sinking his voice, "yesterday, no longer ago than yesterday...."
"Ah, there's the postman!" she said, hurrying to change the conversation.
She heard a heavy footstep outside the windows opening on the garden. There was a rap at the knocker on the front-door. A minute later, Victor, the man-servant, brought in the letters.
"Oh!" said Mme. Morestal. "A letter from the boy.... Open it, will you? I haven't my spectacles.... I expect it's to say that he will arrive this evening: he was to have left Paris this morning."
"Not at all!" cried M. Morestal, glancing over the letter. "Philippe and his wife have taken their two boys to some friends at Versailles and started with the intention of sleeping last night at the Ballon de Colnard, seeing the sunrise and doing the rest of the journey on foot, with their knapsacks on their backs. They will be here by twelve."
She at once lost her head:
"And the storm! What about last night's storm?"
"My son doesn't care about the storm! It won't be the first that the fellow's been through. It's eleven o'clock. He will be with us in an hour."
"But that will never do! There's nothing ready for them!"