"Indeed, I did not."
"They are coming. Hark!"
The distant footsteps of the men, one following the other, were audible. They were returning for the mid-day meal.
Eléonore, in terror, almost suppliant, her voice shaken with emotion, ejaculated:
"Mathurin is coming first—if only he did not hear what you were saying, Rousille. If he catches sight of me, he will guess everything.... I dare not go back into the house with such red eyes. You take my place. Go and pour out the soup, I will be with you in a moment."
The men went into the house, walking in their usual leisurely manner; François alone had a presentiment of the news awaiting them. The hot sun had dried the moisture on grass and leaves, a soft haze lay all around, the air was mild and balmy; linnets, innumerable, had settled on the waggon-ruts, where lay thistles trodden down by the oxen. An aroma of hot bread pervaded the farmyard, and cheered by the wholesome smell the fine old farmer entered the house-place, whither Mathurin had preceded him.
As soon as they had disappeared within the house, Eléonore, who had been watching at the door of the bakery, crossed the yard to the stable where François, having deposited his load of maize, was coiling up the rope by which he had carried it.
"François," she exclaimed, "they want you. Your letter has been burning me like fire." And still quite pale, Eléonore held out the letter, watching it pass from her hands to those of her brother with a nervous dread of the unknown future.
"When is it?" she asked. "Be quick!"
Without showing any emotion François tried to smile, as though to mark masculine superiority over the weaker sex, as he proceeded deliberately to open the envelope with his thick, moist fingers. He read, reflected for a moment, then answered: