"Yes, he was always watching me."
"He is jealous, you see. He has a grudge against you."
"For what, poor creature!"
"Your youth, my poor child. He is jealous of all who take the place that should have been his; jealous of François, of André, of you. He is like a lost soul when he hears that anyone but himself is to manage your father's farm. Shall I tell you all?"
Her frail hand uplifted, she pointed to the distant Marais, where the poplars, tiny as grains of oats, were standing out against the sky.
"Well, he still thinks of Félicité."
"Poor brother!" exclaimed Rousille, nodding her head. "If he is still thinking of her, she is only making fun of him."
"Innocent," returned the old woman in a whisper, "I know what I know. Beware of Mathurin, he has drunk too deeply of love to forget. Beware of Félicité Gauvrit, because she is furious that being an heiress, no suitors come to her."
Rousille was about to reply. Adelaide made her a sign to keep silence; she had heard a footstep in the lane. Hastily drying her eyes, the old lady re-seated herself and picked up her work, like a child surprised in some fault by her mother. A pair of sabots was heard at the foot of the wall, they passed the doorsteps, and went on down the Place. It was not Véronique. Marie-Rose had drawn back; she was looking at her one friend, so old, so worn, so timid, yet whose heart was so young. And she thought no more of what she had been about to reply; she only said simply:
"Good-bye, Aunt Michelonne. If I need help I shall know where to come."