"Madelon says the poor child is rested. She has put her in the loft where she stored her winter apples."
"Sensible girl. Now you would have given her the best bed, if it meant everybody's arrest next moment."
"Oh, if it pleases you to say so, you may, but I 'm not really quite so foolish as you try to make me out. Mathieu thinks everyone was burnt."
"Well, one hoped he would. For Heaven's sake keep out of the whole matter, and he 'll continue to think so."
"Yes, I will. I see you are right, dearest. Jean Jacques has a plan. After a few days he thinks he could get her out of the place. Madelon would not tell me more."
"Oho, Mademoiselle Virtue, then it was Madelon who was good, not you."
"We were both good," asserted Ange demurely.
After that there were no further confidences between Madelon and the ladies of the white house. If they met on the road, they nodded, passed a friendly greeting, and went each on her own way without further words.
Ten days went by and brought them to the first week of March. It came in like the proverbial lamb, with dewy nights which sparkled into tender sunny days. The brushwood tangles reddened with innumerable buds; here and there in the hedgerow a white violet appeared like a belated snowflake, and in the undergrowth primrose leaves showed fresh and green. Aline gave herself up to these first prophecies of spring. She roamed the woods and lanes for hours, finding in every budded tree, in every promised flower, not only the sweetest memories of her childhood, but also, God knows what, of elusive beckoning hopes that played on the spring stirring in her blood, as softly as the Lent breeze, which brought a new blush to her cheek. One exquisite afternoon found her still miles from home. So many birds were singing that no one could have felt the loneliness of the countryside. She turned with regret to make her way towards Rancy, taking here a well-known and there an unfamiliar path. Nearer home she struck into the woods by a new and interesting track. It wandered a good deal, winding this way and that until she lost her bearings and had no longer any clear notion of what direction she was taking. Presently a sweetness met her, and with a little exclamation of pleasure she went on her knees before the first purple violets of the year. It seemed a shame to pick, but impossible to leave them, and by searching carefully she obtained quite a bunch, salving her conscience with the thought of what pleasure they would give Mlle Marthe, who seemed so much more suffering of late.
"It is the spring—it will pass," Ange said repeatedly.