All this while, everything was pursuing its usual course at the farm of Bois-de-Chênes. Yegof's strange behavior was almost forgotten, and war was for the time unthought of. Old Duchene, while Hullin plodded back, was driving his cattle home, the herdsman Robin spreading the straw on which they were to rest, and Annette and Jeanne were skimming the daily tribute of their dairy. Catherine Lefevre alone, silent and gloomy, mused over what had passed, as she superintended the work of her people. She was too old, too grave, to so soon forget events which had agitated her so strongly. At nightfall, after the evening repast, she entered the large kitchen where the farm-servants awaited her, and there took down her register and placed it upon the table, ready, as was her wont, to regulate the accounts of the day.
It might have been half-past seven, when footsteps were heard at the gate. The watch-dog sprang forward growling, listened for a moment, sniffed the air, and then quietly returned to his bone.
"It is some one belonging to the farm," said Annette; "Michel knows him."
At the same moment old Duchene exclaimed:
"Good-evening, Master Jean-Claude! You are back."
"Yes—from Phalsbourg, and I will remain here a few moments to rest before going to the village. Is Catherine at home?"
"She is within," replied Duchene. And brave Jean-Claude entered into the bright light, his broad hat drawn over his eyes, and the roll of sheepskin upon his shoulder.
"Good-evening, my children," said he, "good-evening. Always at work, I see."
"Yes, Monsieur Hullin," answered Jeanne, laughing. "If we had nothing to do, life would be tiresome indeed."