"Bah! this cannot go on much longer. We shall have a letter one of these days." The old clock began to strike nine; and as Hullin resumed his work, the door opened, and Catherine Lefévre, the mistress of the Bois-de-Chênes farm, appeared on the threshold, to the great surprise of the shoemaker, for it was not usual for her to leave her home at such an hour. Catherine Lefévre might be about sixty years of age, but she was as upright and straight as at thirty. Her clear gray eyes and hooked nose gave to her face some-what the look of a bird of prey; her sunken cheeks, and the corners of her mouth, drawn down by thought, added something of a gloomy and bitter expression; two or three thick locks of grizzled hair hung down on each side of her temples; on her head she wore a striped brown hood, which covered her shoulders also down to her elbows; in short, her whole aspect denoted a character firm to obstinacy, mingled with something of grandeur and sadness which inspired at once respect and fear. "You, Catherine!" said Hullin, surprised out of himself. "Yes, it is I," replied the old farm-mistress, in a calm tone. "I am come to talk a little with you, Jean-Claude. Is Louise gone out?" "She is spending the evening with Madeline Rochart." "That is well." Then Catherine threw back her hood, and came and sat down beside the bench. Hullin looked at her steadfastly; he was struck by an appearance of something at once extraordinary and mysterious. "What is the matter?" said he, laying down his hammer. Instead of replying to this question, the old woman, looking towards the door, seemed to be listening; then, hearing nothing, she resumed her musing look. "The fool Yégof passed last night at the farm," said she. "He came to see me, too, this afternoon," said Hullin, without attaching any importance to this fact, which seemed to him of no moment. "Yes," replied the old woman, in a low tone, "he passed the night at our house, and yesterday evening, at this hour, in the kitchen, before everybody, that man, that madman, related the most fearful things to us!" She was silent, and the corners of her mouth seemed to be drawn down lower than usual. "Fearful things!" murmured the shoemaker, more and more surprised, for he had never seen the farm-mistress in such a state before, "but what sort, Catherine, what sort?" "Dreams that I have had!" "Dreams! you must be laughing at me, surely!" "No." Then, after a moment's silence, looking at the wonderstruck Hullin, she went on slowly: