Notwithstanding her distress, Rousille could not repress a cry of joy. A smile rose to her face like an air bubble on troubled waters that none can hinder, and that widens as it goes. "Oh how happy I am!" she said. But then quickly resumed: "No, I am wrong to speak like that. You do not know of our trouble at home. François has gone, Eléonore has gone; I am all alone there, and I have come out to find father, who has not come home. I have no time to spare for you, Jean Nesmy. It would be wrong!" He watched the smile fade from her face in the moonlight; and as she drew her cloak about her to resume her way, he said hurriedly: "I know all, Rousille. For the last three days I have been at Chalons trying to find a situation as near here as possible. I have not found one. But this evening I heard of François' going; it is the talk of the town in one way and another. I ran at once to La Fromentière, keeping out of sight. I watched you in the garden, in the barn. Since sundown I have heard you crying; but the farmer was the only one I saw go out." "Where is he--at Sallertaine?" "No; he went, but came back. I was in hiding about here. He passed just where we are now standing, and he was gesticulating and talking to himself as if he were demented." Terrified, she asked: "Was that long ago?" "A quarter of an hour." "Which way did he go?" Jean Nesmy pointed in the direction of the mainland, and to the wooden heights further away. "To the grounds of the Château, I believe. He jumped the fence some hundred yards from here." "Thanks and good-bye, Jean. I must go." But he, taking her hand, grew very grave in his turn. "Yes," he replied, "I know quite well--but myself--soon you will have me no longer. To-morrow I am going home to the Bocage; and I came back to ask you one thing, Rousille. What shall I say to my mother to-morrow when she asks me, 'Is it really true that she loves you? What word of plighted troth did she give you when you parted? My poor Jean, when true-hearted girls see their sweethearts going away from them they say some word that is as binding as a betrothal ring, something to comfort him in absence. What did she of La Fromentière say to you?' If you have said no word, she will not believe me!" The dim solitude enveloping them threw their shadows faintly on the grey grass. Rousille, her sweetheart's glowing eyes fixed upon her, answered sadly: "Do not come back until Driot is well settled at home. Some months hence, in mid-winter, if our neighbours who frequent your markets tell you that he is working like a true farmer, that he is to be seen at fairs and gatherings, above all, that he is courting a girl at Sallertaine, then come back and speak to father. My father will not hear of a _Boquin_ for son-in-law; but if I will have no other husband than you--if André speaks for me, who can tell? Father spoke well of you after you went." "Really, Rousille? What did he say?" "No, not now. I must be going. Good-bye."