The girl examined the peasant who inquired for her master in a tone and look not of the pleasantest, and who presented himself in work-day clothes soiled with mud, and replied:
"I think he is. What may be your business?"
"Tell him that Toussaint Lumineau, of La Fromentière, wants to speak to him; and let him be quick, I am in a hurry."
Astonished, not daring to show Lumineau into the dining-room where M. Meffray was wont to receive his clients, the maid left the farmer and his son standing in the shabby passage at the foot of the stairs. So taken aback was she, that she did not see the shamefaced François hidden in the background, but only the stalwart old peasant, whose broad shoulders almost blocked the way as he stood erect, hat on head, under the ill-kept hall lamp that was never lighted.
A few seconds later the garden door opened, and a tall, stout man came in, dressed in a white flannel suit, a cap of the same material on his head; his face was clean-shaven, his small eyes blinking, probably with the sudden change from the outer glare. This was M. Meffray, member for Chalons, an ambitious small tradesman, who, originally one of them, was possessed by a secret animosity towards the peasant class; and who, living amongst them, had only learnt to know their defects of which he made use.
Informed of the manner in which Lumineau had presented himself, dreading some violence, he stopped short at the foot of the staircase, rested his elbow on the banisters, and touching the brim of his cap with three fingers, said carelessly:
"They should have shown you in, farmer. But as it seems that you are in haste, we can talk just as well here. I have done your son a service, is that your reason for coming?"
"Just so," returned Lumineau.
"Can I do anything more for you?"
"I want to keep my boy, M. Meffray."