"Yes, it is strange," said Aline. "Nothing could have been more convenient, since they will be able to take you to my aunt’s very door. I have spoken to the miller, and he is very willing. Nothing could have fallen out better." "And you?" faltered Aline, her eyes on the ground. "I go on at once. You know my orders—’to lose no time.’ If it had been necessary, I should have taken you to Rancy, but as it turns out I have no excuse for not going on at once." "At once?" she repeated in a little voice like a child’s. He nodded, and walked to the window, where he stood looking out for a moment. "The horses are in," he said, turning again. "It is time I took my seat." He passed out, saluting Pinel and Madelon, who was much elated by his bow. Aline followed him into the square, and saw that the other two passengers were in their places. Her heart had begun to beat so violently that she thought it impossible that he should not hear it, but he only threw her a grave, cold look. "You will like perhaps to know that your friend’s case came on yesterday and that she was set free. There was nothing against her," he said, with some constraint. "Marguerite?" "Yes, the Citoyenne Matigny. She is free. I thought you would be glad to know." "Yes—yes—oh, thank you! I am glad!" "You will tell my aunts that my business was pressing, or I should have visited them. Give them my greetings. They will be good to you." "Yes—the letter was kind." "They are good women." He handed her a folded paper. "This is my direction. Keep it carefully, and if you need anything, or are in any trouble, you will write." His voice made it an order, not a request, and she winced. "Yes," she said, with stiff lips. Dangeau’s face grew harder. If it were only over, this parting! He craved for action—longed to be away—to be quit of this intolerable strain. He had kept his word, he had assured her safety, let him be gone out of her life, into such a life as a man might make for himself, in the tumult and flame of war. "Seigneur!" said Madelon, at the window. "See, Jean Jacques,"—and she nudged that patient man,—"see how he looks at her! Ma foi, I am glad it is not I! And with a face as if it had been cut out of stone, and there he gets in without so much as a touch of the hand, let alone a kiss! Is this the way of it in Paris?" "Thou must still be talking, Madelon," said Jean Jacques, complacently. "Well, I should not like it," shrugged Madelon pettishly. "No, I ’ll warrant you wouldn’t," said the miller, with a grin and a hearty kiss. At four o’clock the business and pleasure of the market-day were over, and the folk began to jog home again. Aline sat beside Madelon on the empty meal-sacks, and looked about her with a vague curiosity as they made their way through the poplar-bordered lanes, bumping prodigiously every now and then, in a manner that testified to the truth of Madelon’s description of the road.