There was no answer. Going through the house-place he passed into the kitchen, where he met Rousille.
"Where is your sister?"
"She was talking to François in the courtyard just now. Shall I look for her?"
"No, that will do. I will see her later on. Rousille, we have some business at Chalons, François and I. We shall be back before supper. Go to Mathurin, who will be tired of waiting so long at La Cailleterie, and bring him back."
Without another word, the farmer returned to the yard, where François awaited him. Getting into the cart, he signed to his son to take the place beside him, and with a cut of the whip sent the mare, unaccustomed to such harsh usage, off at a gallop.
"Where are they going at such speed?" thought the few spectators whom they passed on their way—spectators whom nothing escapes: innkeepers standing at their doors, tramps on the highway, peasants lopping the trees. "What has come to them? Old Lumineau is lashing La Rousse, and jerking the reins like a groom afraid of his master, and not a word does he say to his lad."
In fact the farmer's wrath was growing as he meditated his wrongs; he muttered between his teeth what he would say to that Meffray, while his stalwart arms, eager for strife and vengeance, lashed into the mare. François, on the contrary, exhausted by the effort he had made, had relapsed into his usual apathy, and suffered himself to be carried on towards his fate, looking at the hedges with vacant stare.
It was he, who on arrival at the Place by the Halles-Neuves of Chalons, jumped down and tied the mare to a ring attached to one of the pillars; then followed his father who turned up one of the streets on the left, and stopped before a modern, narrow, red-brick building. An iron plate, under the door bell, was inscribed, "Jules Meffray, Ex-Sheriff's Officer, Town Councillor."
The farmer pulled the bell vigorously.
"Is your master in?" he asked the servant who opened the door.