Rapidly she stooped and lowered the candle to see under the bed where André kept his boots and shoes; they had gone. She opened his trunk, it was empty. Going back into the bakery, she clambered up into the loft. There to the right, beside a heap of wheat, she ought to find a little black portmanteau he had brought home from Africa. She lifted the candle, the portmanteau was not there.
Everything pointed to the one fact. There was no manner of doubt concerning the misfortune that had befallen them. Terrified, she hastily descended the ladder, and unable to keep the secret, she screamed:
"Father!"
A voice, muffled by the intervening walls, replied:
"What is it?"
"Driot has gone!" she cried, as she ran through the rooms. Outside the barred window, her eyes seeking him, she thought she discerned a shadow.
"Farewell, Jean Nesmy," she called, without stopping. "Never come back any more. All is lost to us," and she disappeared into the kitchen, to the door of her father's room.
Toussaint had sprung out of bed, and now came, barefoot, hurriedly buttoning his work-day clothes over his night-shirt. Startled out of his first sleep, only half understanding the purport of her words, stern of countenance, he came forth into the light shed by his daughter's candle.
"What are you screaming about?" he said. "He cannot be far off."
Then seeing her terrified face he, too, thought of François, and trembling, followed her.