And she went down the avenues, then along the path by the leafless hedges in front as she had been hidden. Her white coif turned neither to the right nor to the left; but proud as one enduring for her love, she walked on with elastic step down the hill towards the elm-trees of the farmstead, and her eyes gazing fixedly into the gathering night--those eyes which none could read, gazing at everything, seeing nothing, were filled with tender musings. She entered her domain, and began to pour over the bread the soup which had been simmering in her absence. The men stayed without, talking. When they came in she felt sure that she had been again betrayed by Mathurin, and that her father was angry with her. André came in last, at about eight o'clock. The farmer had proposed waiting supper until his return, and he and Mathurin had sat in the chimney-corner warming themselves, by turns taking and trying the cane of M. Henri as they talked over the sad events of the day: the men who had come from Sallertaine to bid, how they had heard the battens nailed up again across the lower windows as they came away; the lights they had seen wandering along the corridors of the upper floor as in the good old days when the great white house was full of guests. "Our masters will never come back now," said Toussaint Lumineau. "And I, who always believed in them! This is the end!" "The end!" repeated André, as he came in at the door from the outer darkness. "I am glad not to have seen it." The good-looking young Maraîchin seemed tired and troubled; his eyes were brilliant as if about to shed tears. Toussaint Lumineau thought that the shame of this public auction, so painful to him, had affected his son in like manner, and had been the sole cause of his long absence. "Sit down, Driot," he said, "you must be hungry. The soup is ready." "No, I am not hungry," replied André. "Nor am I," returned his father. Mathurin alone, dragging himself to the table, ladled out a plate of soup; while his father remained sitting beside the fire, and Driot stood leaning against the projecting chimney-corner, looking alternately at his father and brother. "Where did you go?" asked the farmer. André made a sweeping gesture: "From one to the other. To your friend Guerineau, of La Pinçonnière; to the miller of Moque-Souris; the Levrelles; the Massonneau...." "A good fellow, le Glorieux," interrupted the farmer; "worthy family his." "I saw the Ricolleaus of Malabrit too." "What, you went as far as that?" "The Ertus of La Parée du Mont----" Toussaint Lumineau looked straight into his son's clear eyes, trying to understand. "What led you to go and see all these people, my boy?" "An idea"--no longer able to endure his father's inquiring look, his eyes sought the dark corner wherein stood the bed--"an idea. Well then, going along, I thought I would go as far as La Roche and see François."