"I never go into the fields," replied Rousille. "But one evening I heard him say to my eldest brother, 'Do not speak ill of the _Boquin_, Lumineau! I refused him my daughter, and in that I did well; but he was a good worker, he had a love for soil.'" Behind the iron bar the face of the former farm-hand coloured with pride. "It is true that I loved everything about the place for your sake, Rousille. And so André will not marry?" "I do not say that. He is still in such low spirits; but time will cure that. We shall have him on our side, that good André; he spoke so kindly to me the day of the letter. He promised to help me; but did not explain in what way." "Did he mean soon?" "I think so," said Rousille, "for his manner was very decided, and he was very sure about the step he was going to take." Suddenly she lowered her voice--"Did you hear that?" she asked. "No, nothing." "Something moved in the bakery." "Look at me, Rousille. Nothing moved," returned Jean. Obedient, victorious over all fear for love of him, she bent once more towards the window, even began to laugh as she said: "It is easy to see that you have no fear of anything. Where were you hidden, just now, before I opened the shutter?" "Among the layers of straw. The wind was as keen as on one of my worst wild-fowl expeditions; it stupefied me, and seeing no light I must have fallen asleep for a while." "Really? and what woke you?" "Bas-Rouge, going after your farm-servant." "Going after the farm-servant?" exclaimed Rousille in astonishment. "I heard the dog bark, but I thought he was after a tramp, there are so many about on these roads; or that he had recognised you----" "You know very well, Rousille, that he never barks at me, since I used to take him out with me when I went shooting. No, I am certain that it was the farm-servant.... I heard the latch fall, and the distinct sound of footsteps on the gravel at the back of the house. I tell you it was the servant, or else your brother.... I am convinced that a man went out from here." She blanched a little and then drew herself up: "No!" she replied, "André does not go out shooting like you; nor does he go off to Chalons as François did! Can Mathurin have got up to spy upon us while father was asleep? Oh, do take care of yourself, Jean Nesmy! Listen!" Seizing the candlestick from the window-sill, she held it out at arm's-length towards the other end of the room, the light shining on the polished furniture as she moved it. "You are right, someone is moving about in the bakery," said Jean Nesmy. Now the door was gently pushed from the outer side, and the bolt shaken in its socket. Rousille grew white. But she had brave blood in her veins, and still holding the light as far forward as possible, she noiselessly crossed the room, cautiously slid back the bolt, and flung open the door.