Rousille ran along the road, unheeding the stoniness of the way. Rain fell heavily, but she did not feel it. Sometimes she pressed her hand to her heart, to calm its beating. She thought, "I am happy," and with that she wept.
The windows of all the houses in Sallertaine were lighted when she reached the long street. The timid sisters Michelonne had already shut their shutters, and drawn their bolts.
"Aunts Michelonne!" she cried, knocking with her hand on the door, "please let me in quickly."
It was the work of a moment for Véronique to draw the bolt, open the door, and shut it behind the new-comer.
"How wet you are, Rousille!" she exclaimed, "and without cloak or kerchief in such weather! It has struck seven. What brings you out at such an hour?"
At the far end of the room, on a chest beside the bed nearest to the fireplace, Adelaide had stood the solitary tallow candle, its long smoky wick burnt to a thick glowing knob. By its dim light she was beginning to undress, and had already taken off her apron. A corner of the sheet turned back upon the coverlet showed a patch of whiteness; the rest of the shop was in gloom—chairs, spinning wheels, the table, the other bedstead, and the clock beside it calmly ticking.
"Do not let me disturb you, Aunt Adelaide," said the girl going towards her; "I have news."
The eldest of the sisters taking the candlestick, held it up to Rousille's face, and seeing traces of tears upon it, said:
"Sad news, again, dear child?"
"No, aunts, glad news."