"Show it!" cried the women's voices.
And Rousille saw the object lowered on to the stone steps, the little silken gown left behind, forgotten, that still retained something of the supple grace of its wearer, Mademoiselle Ambroisine de la Fromentière. And coarse words and low jests reached her, made by the brokers as they handled the dainty relics of refinement and purity.
"Can they put up that for sale!" she murmured; she shrank from the profanation, and would gladly have gone away.
But at that moment two sudden emotions, two surprises nailed her to her seat. Across the lawn, facing her, in front of a group of fir-trees, she had seen Mathurin, who had left the protection of the branches, and was looking over at the bench of la Marquise, shaking his fist; while, quite close behind her, she heard a voice from out the flowering laurels, say:
"My Rousille, Jean Nesmy has come!"
With perfect self-control she did not turn her head, made no movement; feeling herself to be spied upon, she had all the courage of her ancestors whom peril had ever found ready. Scarce opening her lips as if only breathing to calm her beating heart, she said to him who had rustled the leaves behind her:
"Beware! Mathurin is watching us."
"I know, he has already seen me."
"Then, go quickly! Come back later."
"When?"