Terrified, she asked:
"Was that long ago?"
"A quarter of an hour."
"Which way did he go?"
Jean Nesmy pointed in the direction of the mainland, and to the wooden heights further away.
"To the grounds of the Château, I believe. He jumped the fence some hundred yards from here."
"Thanks and good-bye, Jean. I must go."
But he, taking her hand, grew very grave in his turn.
"Yes," he replied, "I know quite well—but myself—soon you will have me no longer. To-morrow I am going home to the Bocage; and I came back to ask you one thing, Rousille. What shall I say to my mother to-morrow when she asks me, 'Is it really true that she loves you? What word of plighted troth did she give you when you parted? My poor Jean, when true-hearted girls see their sweethearts going away from them they say some word that is as binding as a betrothal ring, something to comfort him in absence. What did she of La Fromentière say to you?' If you have said no word, she will not believe me!"
The dim solitude enveloping them threw their shadows faintly on the grey grass. Rousille, her sweetheart's glowing eyes fixed upon her, answered sadly: