"'Ah, tokens give I none,' said she,
'To barons gay like you,
For chosen I am proud to be
By Pierre, who serves us true.'"
For the first time Félicité, looking at Mathurin said confidentially, with a laugh:
"That song is Rousille's story."
"Do you know what she wanted?" returned Mathurin hotly, "to marry our farm-servant; to become mistress of La Fromentière! But I was on the watch. I had that fellow Jean Nesmy turned out, and I swear to you it will be long before he dare show his face there again. And now...."
Here he lowered his voice and bent forward until the tawny hair touched the outer rim of the muslin coif, which did not draw back—"And now, if you will still have me, Félicité, it is you who shall be the mistress of La Fromentière." She had not time to answer. She had risen, the last refrain of the ronde had ended in a murmur of surprise. A man, whose white head towered above those of the assembled guests, had abruptly entered and advanced into the middle of the first room, without removing the hat he wore on his entrance, or making any salutation. His clothes were coated with ice; on his left arm he carried an old brown cloak that swept the ground as he walked. Severe of countenance, with eyes half closed from coming suddenly into the glare of light, he was evidently seeking someone.
All made way for the farmer of La Fromentière, "Are my lads here?" he asked.
"Yes, of course," returned a voice behind him. "Here I am, father."