"I am accepted; there is nothing more to be said. The thing is done. I am taking Eléonore to La Roche to keep house for me. She, too, has had enough of this. She has found a good place, a shop where she will make more than with you; at any rate, she will have a chance of marrying.... And I don't see that we have acted badly towards you in what we have done. Don't say that we have! And don't make that rueful face about it! We have served our time with you, father, have waited patiently for André's return. Now that he is coming home, let him help you. It is his turn." The unexpected blow had stupefied the farmer; he had grown very white. With set teeth, one arm resting on the plough, he remained speechless, his eyes fixed upon François as if demented. Slowly the full force of the situation, with all its pain, filtered into his soul. "But, François, what you tell me cannot be true; Eléonore never complained of her work." "Oh yes, she has; not to you." "As for you, you have always had plenty of help. If I have sometimes reproached you for idleness, it has been because times are hard for everyone. But now that I am going to take on a farm-servant, now that another fortnight will see Driot home, we shall be four of us, counting myself, who am still of some use. You will not go, François?" "Yes." "Where will you do better than at home? Have you been short of food?" "No." "Have I ever refused you clothes, or even money for your tobacco?" "No." "François, it must be that military service has changed your heart towards us." "That may be." "But say that you will not leave us?" The young man put his hand into his coat pocket, and held out the letter. "I have to be there at noon to-morrow," he said. "If you don't believe me, read for yourself." The father stretched out his hand across the team for the letter, trembling so much that he could scarcely take it. Once in his hands, without opening it, in a sudden access of indignation he crumpled and tore it into atoms, then crushed the pieces under his sabots into the soft earth. "There," he cried, "is an end to the letter. Now are you going?" "That alters nothing," returned François. He would have passed his father, but a powerful hand was laid upon his shoulders, a voice commanded: "Stay here!" And the son was constrained to stay. "Who engaged you, François?" "The head of the office." "No; who advised you? You did not do this thing by yourself, you had the help of some gentleman. Who was it?" The young man hesitated for a moment, then, feeling himself a prisoner, stammered out: "M. Meffray." With one thrust the farmer sent him flying. "Run; harness La Rousse to the dog-cart. Quick! I am going myself to M. Meffray."