"Good-bye, dear child. Beware of Mathurin. Beware of the girl out there!"
They said no more in words, only their eyes were fixed on each other's, Rousille looking back until she had reached the door; then the latch was lifted, fell back into its socket, and there only remained in the silent chamber a little old woman stooping down over her black work, but who could not see her needle for the mist of tears in her eyes.
CHAPTER V.
PLOUGHING IN SEPTEMBER.
It was Monday, the third day after Rousille had seen the Michelonnes. On the previous day, from morn till eve, storm clouds, rising out of the sea, had discharged their contents on the arid earth, as pockets full of corn are scattered by the sower. Showers of leaves, mostly from the topmost branches, had fallen; others, heavy with moisture, hung pendant. An aroma of damp earth rose up to the calm, milky sky; there was not a breath stirring, the birds were silenced, the land seemed intent upon the last drops of rain formed during the night, that came crashing down at the foot of the trees with a ring as of falling glass. Something in Nature seemed to have died with the last breath of summer, and the whole earth to be conscious of its loss.
And in truth, on the hills of Chalons, the most distant area of La Fromentière, the far-off grinding of a plough, and the calls of the man to his oxen, proclaimed that Autumn labour had begun.
In the farm bakery, left of the building, and dividing their room from that of François, Eléonore and Marie-Rose were engaged heating the oven. From the semicircular opening flames were shooting up, now in heavy wreaths, now in groups of red petals set on upright stems. Eléonore standing before it, in a print gown, was feeding the oven with faggots of bramble, thrusting them with an iron fork into the furnace. Marie-Rose was busily going backwards and forwards bringing in the baskets of dough. They did not speak; for a long time there had been a coolness between the sisters. But as for the tenth time Eléonore looked towards the door, as if expecting to see some person or thing in the courtyard, Rousille asked:
"What are you expecting, Eléonore?"
"Nothing," was the cross reply. "I am hot. My eyes smart." And she busied herself with separating the burning embers, arranging them in layers at the sides of the oven; this finished: