Flandrin stood a little aloof, sheepishly on the threshold, wishing he had never said a word of the death of Manon Dax to his good wife and neighbors.
"You met that poor saint and killed her in the snow with your witcheries!" one cried.
"You have stifled that poor babe where it lay!" cried another.
"A good woman like that!" shrieked a third, "who was well and blithe and praising God only a day ago, for I saw her myself come down the hill for our well water!"
"It is as you did with the dear little Rémy, who will be lame all his life through you," hissed a fourth. "You are not fit to live; you spit venom like a toad."
"Are you alive, my angels?" said a fifth, waking the three children noisily, and rousing their piercing cries. "Are you alive after that witch has gazed on you? It is a miracle! The saints be praised!"
Folle-Farine stood mute and erect for the moment, not comprehending why they thus with one accord fell upon her. She pointed to the bodies on the hearth, with one of those grave and dignified gestures which were her birthright.
"She was cold and hungry," she said curtly, her mellow accent softening and enriching the provincial tongue which she had learned from those amidst whom she dwelt. "She had fallen, and was dying. I brought her here. The young child was killed by the snow. I stayed with the rest because they were frightened, and alone. There is no more to tell. What of it?"
"Thou hadst better come away. What canst thou prove?" whispered Flandrin to his wife.
He was afraid of the storm he had invoked, and would fain have stilled it. But that was beyond his power. The women had not come forth half a league in the howling winds of a midwinter daybreak only to go back with a mere charity done, and with no vengeance taken.