Fadard stood leaning against the wall in the bar-room of the inn when Andoche entered. His face had been rendered hideous by a large gash--the result of a blow from a bottle. Night was approaching. The sun, in a flood of glowing crimson and amber, was sinking beyond the world’s west. The leaves of the tall poplars were gently soughing as the twilight breeze, prodigal with caresses, wooed them into soothing accents. Still the wrathy peasants haggled and disputed the claims of possession as the animals slowly and with great difficulty were recaptured. No one claimed the dead cattle. The controversy was alone confined to the living. The sun in a final burst of glory flashed a brilliant farewell to this section of the earth as Madame Barrau, excited to hatred and anger and imagining all kinds and degrees of troubles to be hers, went on her way with downcast eyes. Once, however, she glanced at the parting orb, whose lustrous rays recalled to her mind Bruno’s look of joy when he beheld her beside the couch. If Catherine had allowed herself to remember only Savin’s generosity instead of harboring wicked thoughts; if she had studied the situation and reflected a little, she would have realized what a meagre sacrifice of self-love would have won her husband over to devotion once more. But this effort seemed to her out of the question. She only remembered that if Savin did not love her two other men did. Had not Firmin and Bruno evinced how much she was to be desired? Ah! they would know--either one of them--how to appreciate her beauty and fine qualities. Thus onward she walked, with vengeance in her heart. Beyond the village comparative calm prevailed. Here no disputes were heard. On the rustic little bridge she met Mother Mathurine. The poor woman was hurrying toward St. Benoit. “Have you seen Bruno, Madame Catherine?” she asked, with heart-broken sobs. “Do not take on so, Mother Mathurine. He is safe. Monsieur Eugène is taking care of him.” “Tell me the worst, Madame,” pleaded the old woman. “I have, Madame. It is true--but he owes his life to Jean Manant.” “To _him_? Did _he_ save him?” “Yes, Madame. From under the trampling herd he rescued him.” “_Again!_ Thanks, Madame Catherine. But I must hasten to Bruno’s side. I may be able to do something for him.” And with quickened steps Mother Mathurine proceeded to Monsieur Eugène’s house, where she arrived a few moments later, breathless and trembling. Through the yard all instinctively made way for her to pass. “Where is my son?” she asked, hoarsely. They pointed to the front room. Seeing her enter, Monsieur Eugène came forward to speak to her. “One moment before you embrace Bruno. He has just fainted again.” “You would tell me he is dead!” “No! no! He is living and doing well. But you may embrace a brave lad here and thank him for his courage,” and Monsieur Eugène pointed to Jean Manant. Mother Mathurine, turning, seized his hands and kissed them.