She was so greatly in fear of seeing her father come back that she was almost frenzied with haste. Quickly she made up her bundle, went out from La Fromentière, and reached the hollow road, where, crouching beneath the hedge, she waited for the steam tram that runs between Fromentière and Chalons. There some hours later François was to rejoin her. Meanwhile the farmer, driving La Rousse at her greatest speed, had returned home. "Eléonore!" he had cried. "Gone," Mathurin had answered. Then, half-mad with grief, the old man had flung the reins across the steaming beast, and without a word of explanation had stridden away in the direction of Sallertaine. Had he been actuated by a last hope and idea? Or did his deserted house inspire him with dread? Night was falling. He had not yet returned. A damp, encircling mist, silent as death, enveloped all around. In the living-room of La Fromentière, beside the fire that no one tended, beside the simmering pot that murmured as if in low plaint, the two remaining inmates of the farm sat watching, but how differently! Rousille, nervous, burning with fever, could not keep still; she was for ever rising from her chair, clasping her hands, and murmuring: "My God, my God!" then going to the open door to look out, shivering, into the dark, thick night. "Listen!" she said. The cripple listened, then said: "It is the goatherd of Malabrit taking home his flock." "Listen again!" A distant sound of barking, borne on the silent air, died away in the stillness. "That is not Bas-Rouge's bark," returned Mathurin. So from hour to hour, and minute to minute, a step, a cry, the rolling of a vehicle, would keep their senses on the alert. What were they expecting? Their father, who came not. But Rousille, younger, more credulous, was expecting the others too, or if not both, at least one, either François or Eléonore, who, repentant--was it too much to hope--had come back. Oh, what joy it would be, what rapture to see one of them! It seemed as if the other would have the right to go if one came back to take his place in the home. The young girl felt raised out of herself as a vague sense of duty came over her; she, the only woman, the only one to act in her deserted home. Mathurin sat in a stooping posture by the hearth, his feet wrapped in a rug, the glow of the fire reddening the beard crushed beneath his chin. For hours he had sat so, never moving, speaking as little as possible; from time to time tears rolled down his cheeks; at other times Rousille, looking at him, was astonished to see the shadow of a smile cross his face--a smile she could in nowise understand. Nine o'clock struck. "Mathurin," exclaimed the girl, "I am afraid that some misfortune has befallen father." "He may be talking over his trouble with the Curé, or the Mayor." "So I tell myself; yet, all the same, I am frightened." "That's because you are not accustomed to wait as I am. What do you want to do?"