“Forgive me, Hector dear——”
“Thilenth, my children,” she said, pausing again; “I beg the perthon who ith thnoring tho loud to do me the favor to go.”
Cézarine was about to continue her declamation when there came another prolonged groan. All the villagers looked at one another, saying:
“Who on earth is making such a noise as that?”
“It ain’t me.”
“Nor it ain’t Père Mauflard neither.”
Another groan woke the echoes of the living-room. Terror was depicted on every face, and the peasants crowded closer together.
“Great God! what can that be?” they exclaimed.
“You are frightened at nothing at all,” said Cézarine; “it’th thome brute prowling round the yard.”