She turned her head towards the windows of La Fromentière, the stables, the hayricks, sighed, then immediately remarked in a playful tone: "You will come to one of our dances, will you not, André? The Maraîchines hope so." At this there were signs of approval to the right and left of her. "Perhaps," replied André. "It is so long since I was at a dance in Sallertaine; inclination may return." She thanked him with a knowing wink; then for the first time seemed to be aware of the presence of Mathurin, who was looking at her with an air of mingled passion and grief. A look of pity and embarrassment, not altogether feigned, came into her face as she said: "You understand, Mathurin, what I say to one I say to all in your house.... If it were not too fatiguing for you?... I was glad to see you at mass again this morning ... it shows that you are feeling better...." The cripple, only able to express himself clearly when he had time to think over his words, stammered out: "Thank you, Félicité ... you are very kind, Félicité," and he uttered her name with a kind of adoration that seemed to touch two or three of the conscripts, stupefied as they were. "What was your regiment, Mathurin?" asked the standard-bearer. "The third Cuirassiers." "Bugler, a _fanfare_ of the Cuirassiers in honour of Mathurin Lumineau! Forward, march!" The three girls, the bugler, the standard-bearer, and the five young men bringing up the rear, left the shade of the elms, and went on their way towards Quatre-Moulins, raising clouds of dust crossed by the slanting rays of the sun. The _fanfare_ shook the walls of the old farmhouse. When the last lace coif had disappeared among the furze-bushes and willows that bordered the road, Mathurin said to his brother, who had taken up the paper again and was absently reading: "Would you believe it, Driot, this is the first time for six years that she has been here!" André replied, too abruptly: "She did for you once, old man. Better take care that she does not do it a second time." With muttered words of anger Mathurin Lumineau picked up his crutches, and moving away to a little distance, leant up against a tree. The two brothers spoke no more to each other; both were absently gazing out over the marshland, where the daylight was dying away. The sun was rapidly sinking in the lowland, only a red crescent broken by shadows remained of the fiery globe, against which some dark object in the horizon, a willow, or a group of rushes, stood out like a crown of thorns. It faded away; a fresh breeze rose on the hills; the sounds of the bugle and of voices were no longer heard. Profound silence was over the country, here and there in the grey distance was the glimmer of a fire. Peace had returned; sorrows, one by one, were ending in sleep or in prayer. Old Lumineau coming back from the town saw his two sons standing motionless among the trees wrapt in contemplation of the quiet scene, and not knowing their thoughts, said brightly: