In truth, of the four young people assembled that September evening in the farm house-place, one only personified intact all the characteristics, all the energy of the race, and this was little Rousille, who was eating the crust of bread given her by Eléonore; one face alone expressed the joy of living, the health of body and soul, the brave spirit of one who has not yet had to do battle but who bides her time, and this was the face of the girl to whom no one, as yet, had spoken a word, and who was standing erect in the chimney-corner. "Now the soup is finished," said the farmer. "Come, Mathurin, try a slice of bacon with me." "No. It is always the same thing with us." "Well, and so much the better," replied the father, "bacon is very good fare; I like it." But the cripple, shrugging his shoulders, pushed away the dish, muttering: "I suppose other meat is too dear for us now, eh?" Toussaint Lumineau's brows contracted at the mention of former prosperity, but he replied, gently: "You are right, my poor boy, it is a bad year, and expenses are heavy," then, wishing to change the subject--"Has Jean not come in yet?" Three voices, in succession, replied: "I have not seen him!" "Nor I." "Nor I." After a silence, during which all eyes were turned towards the chimney-corner. "It would be best to ask Rousille," exclaimed Eléonore, "she must know." The girl half turning towards the table, her profile standing out in the firelight, answered: "Of course I do. I met him at the turn of the road by our swing gate; he was going shooting." "Again!" exclaimed the farmer. "Once for all this must be put a stop to. To-night, when I was tying up my cabbages, the keeper of M. le Marquis reprimanded me for that lad's poaching." "But is he not free to shoot plovers?" asked Rousille. "Everyone does." A simultaneous snort proceeding from Eléonore and François marked their hostility to the _Boquin_, the alien, Rousille's friend. The farmer, reassured by the reflection that the keeper would not trouble himself about Nesmy's shooting in the neutral ground of the Marais, where anyone was free to go after wild-fowl as much as he pleased, resumed his supper. François was already nodding, and ate no more. The cripple drank slowly, his eyes fixed on space, perhaps he was thinking of the time when he, too, loved shooting. There was an interval of apparent peace. The summer breeze came through the chinks of the door with a gentle murmur, regular as the waves on a seashore.