The house was silent; a sentinel with shouldered arms paced in front of the barn, where thirty partisans were sleeping upon the straw. Catherine, at sight of the great dark roofs, the old sheds, the stables, the ancient dwelling where her youth had passed, where the peaceful and laborious lives of her father and her grandfather had tranquilly glided away, the home which she was perhaps about to leave for ever, felt a terrible pain at her heart; but she spoke not of it, and springing from the sledge, as she had often done before on her returning from market, she said:
"Come, Louise, we are home at last; thanks to God."
Old Duchene had pushed open the door, crying,
"It is Madame Lefevre!"
"Yes, it is we. Any news from Jean-Claude?"
"No, madame."
Then every one entered the huge kitchen.
A few coals yet glowed upon the hearth, and, under the immense, overhanging chimney-piece, Jerome of Saint-Quirin was seated in the shadow, in his great-coat; his long-pointed red beard hanging on his breast; his thick staff between his knees, and his rifle leaning against the wall.
"Ha! good morning, Jerome!" cried the old woman.
"Good morning, Catherine!" answered the grave and solemn chief of Grossmann. "You come from Donon?"