As soon as the servant opened it—she had the same brown bedgown on, the same grey stockings, and wooden sabots—the Squire dexterously slipped past her into the passage to make sure of a footing. She offered no opposition: drew back, in fact, to make room.
“I must come in; I have business here,” said he, almost as if in apology.
“The Messieurs are free to enter,” was her answer; “but they come to a house empty.”
“I want to speak to Madame Brown,” returned the Squire, in a determined tone.
“Madame Brown and the Mees Browns are depart,” she said. “They depart at daylight this morning, by the first convoi.”
We were in the front parlour then: a small room, barely furnished. The Squire flew into one of his tempers: he thought the servant was playing with him. Old Brandon sat down against the wall, and nodded his head. He saw how it was—they had really gone.
But the Squire stormed a little, and would not believe it. The girl, catching one word in ten, for he talked very fast, wondered at his anger.
The young gentlemans was at the place yesterday, she said, glancing at me: it was a malheur but they had come up before the morning, if they wanted so much to see Madame.
“She has not gone: I know better,” roared the Squire. “Look here, young woman—what’s your name, though?”
“Mathilde,” said she, standing quite at ease, her hands turned on her hips and her elbows out.