"Listen again!"
A distant sound of barking, borne on the silent air, died away in the stillness.
"That is not Bas-Rouge's bark," returned Mathurin.
So from hour to hour, and minute to minute, a step, a cry, the rolling of a vehicle, would keep their senses on the alert.
What were they expecting? Their father, who came not. But Rousille, younger, more credulous, was expecting the others too, or if not both, at least one, either François or Eléonore, who, repentant—was it too much to hope—had come back. Oh, what joy it would be, what rapture to see one of them! It seemed as if the other would have the right to go if one came back to take his place in the home. The young girl felt raised out of herself as a vague sense of duty came over her; she, the only woman, the only one to act in her deserted home.
Mathurin sat in a stooping posture by the hearth, his feet wrapped in a rug, the glow of the fire reddening the beard crushed beneath his chin. For hours he had sat so, never moving, speaking as little as possible; from time to time tears rolled down his cheeks; at other times Rousille, looking at him, was astonished to see the shadow of a smile cross his face—a smile she could in nowise understand.
Nine o'clock struck.
"Mathurin," exclaimed the girl, "I am afraid that some misfortune has befallen father."
"He may be talking over his trouble with the Curé, or the Mayor."
"So I tell myself; yet, all the same, I am frightened."