Her nut-brown face was a shade less brown than usual, but she met his eyes boldly, and said: “No,” adding an explanation which for the moment satisfied him. But he did not sit down again. When she went out he went out also. And though, as she retired slowly to the rye fields and work, she repeatedly looked back at him, it was always to find his eyes upon her. When this had happened half a dozen times, a thought struck him. “How now?” he muttered. “The rat ran out of the straw!”
Nevertheless he still stood gazing after her, with a cunning look upon his features, until she disappeared over the edge of the rift, and then he crept back to the door of the barn, and stole in out of the sunlight into the cool darkness of the raftered building, across which a dozen rays of light were shooting, laden with dancing motes. Inside he stood stock still until he had regained the use of his eyes, and then he began to peer round him. In a moment he found what he sought. Half upon, and half hidden by, the straw, lay a young man, in the deep sleep of utter exhaustion. His face, which bore traces of more than common beauty, was now white and pinched; his hair hung dank about his forehead. His clothes were in rags; and his feet, bound up in pieces torn at random from his blouse, were raw and bleeding. For a short while Michel Tellier bent over him, remarking these things with glistening eyes. Then the peasant stole out again. “It is five crowns!” he muttered, blinking in the sunlight. “Ha, ha! Five crowns!”
He looked round cautiously, but could see no sign of his wife; and after hesitating and pondering a minute or two, he took the path for Carbaix, his native astuteness leading him to saunter slowly along in his ordinary fashion. After that the moorland about the cottage lay seemingly deserted. Thrice, at intervals, the girl dragged home her load of straw, but each time she seemed to linger in the barn no longer than was necessary. Michel’s absence, though it was unlooked-for, raised no suspicion in her breast, for he would frequently go down to the village to spend the afternoon. The sun sank lower, and the shadow of the great monolith, which, standing on the highest point of the moor, about a mile away, rose gaunt and black against a roseate sky, grew longer and longer; and then, as twilight fell, the two coming home met a few paces from the cottage. He asked some questions about the work she had been doing, and she answered briefly. Then, silent and uncommunicative, they went in together. 113 The girl set the bread and cider on the table, and going to the great black pot which had been simmering all day upon the fire, poured some broth into two pitchers. It did not escape Michel’s frugal eye that there was still a little broth left in the bottom of the pot, and this induced a new feeling in him—anger. When his wife hailed him by a sign to the meal, he went instead to the door, and fastened it. Thence he went to the corner and picked up the wood-chopper, and armed with this came back to his seat.
The girl watched his movements first with surprise, and then with secret terror. The twilight was come, and the cottage was almost dark, and she was alone with him; or, if not alone, yet with no one near who could help her. Yet she met his grin of triumph bravely. “What is this?” she said. “Why do you want that?”
“For the rat,” he answered grimly, his eyes on hers.
“Why not use your stool?” she strove to murmur, her heart sinking.
“Not for this rat,” he answered. “It might not do, my girl. Oh, I know all about it,” he continued. “I have been down to the village, and seen the mayor, and he is coming up to fetch him.” He nodded towards the partition, and she knew that her secret was known.
“It is Pierre,” she said, trembling violently, and turning first crimson and then white.