I walked home feeling lonely and depressed. The tall stone house, the seigneurial tower and turret and dovecot, stripped of the veil of foliage that in summer softened their outlines, stood up bare and gaunt at the end of the avenue; and seemed in some strange way to share my loneliness and to speak to me of evil days on which we had alike fallen. In losing Father Benôit I had lost my only chance of society just when, with returning strength, the desire for companionship and a more active life was awakening. I thought of this gloomily; and then was delighted to see, as I approached the door, a horse tethered to the ring beside it. There were holsters on the saddle, and the girths were splashed.
André was in the hall, but to my surprise, instead of informing me that there was a visitor, he went on dusting a table, with his back to me.
"Who is here?" I said sharply.
"No one," he answered.
"No one? Then whose is that horse?"
"The smith's, Monsieur."
"What? Buton's?"
"Ay, Buton's! It is a new thing hanging it at the front door," he added, with a sneer.
"But what is he doing? Where is he?"
"He is where he ought to be; and that is at the stables," the old fellow answered doggedly. "I'll be bound that it is the first piece of honest work he has done for many a day."