"You may perhaps know him," replied the farmer, touching the brim of his hat. "He is employed on the line; his name is Francois Lumineau."

The inspector said carelessly:

"Lumineau? Ah, yes, one of the men on the line. Been here four months?"

"Five," returned the father.

"Maybe. A stout, red-faced fellow, somewhat lazy. Do you want to speak to him?"

"Yes."

"Very well. If you know where he lives, go to him there. You can do your business with him when he goes home to his dinner. Foot pa.s.sengers are not allowed on the lines, my good man." And as he went away, the inspector grumbled: "These peasants think they have the right to go anywhere, as if they were in their own fields."

The farmer controlling himself on Francois' account, made no reply. He left the railway station and began wandering among the broad, deserted streets with their rows of low-built houses on either side; rain had been falling since early morning. The people he stopped to inquire of did not know Cafe la Faucille, the name of which he had learned from the Maraichins who came to the fairs of La Roche. At length, by means of the sign-board, he found it out for himself, in the outskirts of the town. Like the others in the street it was a little one-storied house, with one window. Pus.h.i.+ng open the door, Toussaint Lumineau found himself in a coffee shop, furnished with deal tables, cane stools, and a gla.s.s cupboard, wherein were displayed bottles of wine and spirits, and on a counter at the foot were a few plates of cold meat, between two boxes of sweet biscuits. n.o.body was there. Lumineau took his stand in the middle of the shop; the bell, set ringing by the farmer's entrance, continued to sound more and more feebly. Before it had altogether ceased, an inner door opposite opened, emitting a whiff of cookery, and a woman, without cap, her hair very much dressed, came forward in a mincing manner.

Although he stood with his back to the light she at once recognised the new-comer, coloured vividly, let fall the corner of her ap.r.o.n she was holding in both hands, and stopped short.

"Oh," she said, "it is you, father! What a surprise! How long it is since we have seen you!"

"Yes, true. A very long time."

She hesitated, glad to see her father, and not daring to say so, not knowing his object in coming, and whether she ought to ask him to sit down, to kiss him, or to keep her distance as one who may not hope to be forgiven.

Her eyes were fixed on him. However, the words, not hard, the gentle tones and voice that trembled, rea.s.sured her; and she asked:

"May I kiss you, father, despite all?"

He suffered her embrace, but did not return the kiss. Then sitting on a stool, while Eleonore went to the other side of the table, he looked at his daughter with melancholy curiosity to see in what way she had changed. Eleonore, standing near the wall, embarra.s.sed by the penetrating gaze, began fastening the collar of her grey woollen dress, drawing down the sleeves over her bare arms, then twisted a ring she was wearing on her right hand.

"I did not expect," she stammered, casting down her eyes.... "It has quite startled me to see you again! Francois will be astonished too.

He comes in at eleven every day, sometimes half-past. Father, you will have something to eat?"

He made a negative gesture.

"A gla.s.s of wine? You will not refuse that?"

For all answer, Toussaint Lumineau said:

"Do you know what has happened at home, Eleonore?"

Suddenly the slight amount of self-possession she had a.s.sumed left her. She drew back still further. Her light blue eyes a.s.sumed an expression of fear, while she glanced towards the street as if, perchance, the expected help were coming from that direction. Then, obliged to speak, leaning her head against the wall, with eyes downcast:

"Yes," she said. "He came to La Roche. He wanted to see Francois."

"What!" exclaimed Toussaint Lumineau, rising and pus.h.i.+ng back the stool. "Andre? You have spoken to Andre?"

"Very early on Monday he came. His face had a look on it that is always coming back to me when I am alone. Oh! a look as of a world of sorrow. He pushed open the door, like you did, and said: 'Francois, I am going away from La Fromentiere, because you are not there!' I am sure, father, it is a blow to you ... but do not be angry, for we said nothing to induce him to go. We were even sorry on your account."

She had put out her hand as if to ward the old man off; but she saw at once that there was nothing to fear, and the outstretched hand fell beside the dingy plastered wall. For Toussaint Lumineau was crying as he looked at her. The tears were coursing down his face, wrinkled by suffering. He wanted to know everything, and asked:

"Did he speak of me?"

"No."

"Did he speak of La Fromentiere?"

"No."

"Did he at last say where he was going?"

"He would neither sit down nor stay. He kissed us both; but words neither came to him nor to us. Francois asked him: 'Where are you going, Driot?' and he answered: 'To Buenos Ayres, in America. I mean to try and make money. When I am a rich man you shall all hear of me.

Good-bye, Lionore. Good-bye, Francois,' and he was gone."

"Gone," repeated Lumineau; "my last one gone!"

Eleonore's feelings were touched in sympathy, the corners of her eyes grew moist; but they still turned towards the street, while her father shut his.

"Father," she said, "will you mind coming into the kitchen with me?

Francois will soon be coming in, and if he does not find his dinner ready, you know what it will be! He is not always easy to get on with." She went into the inner room, followed by her father. It was but a shed built on, quite dark even in broad daylight, whose only window looked on to a narrow yard built up on all sides. An iron stove, at present alight, three chairs, and a table took up nearly all the s.p.a.ce. The farmer, taking a chair, sat down between the window and the open door, that he might see Francois when he came in. Eleonore busied herself with cookery, laid the table for two, went backwards and forwards from one room to the other, always in a hurry, never getting on much with what she had in hand. Toussaint Lumineau was silent. She felt it necessary to sigh as she pa.s.sed him, and say:

"Things have gone sadly against you. And how melancholy it must be at La Fromentiere now! Poor father, I am sorry for you!"

He, listening, took her empty words as words of pity.

"Lionore," he said, after a while, as she stooping was cutting the bread for the soup, "Lionore, you have given up the coif of La Vendee?"

"Yes, they ironed them so badly here at La Roche, and it cost so much.

Besides, no one wears caps here."

"Humph! Well, since you have given up dressing as did your mother and grandmother, and all the women of the family I have ever known, are you any the happier? Are you content in your new circ.u.mstances?"

She went on cutting the bread into thin slices, and answered:

"It is not the same kind of work, but I cannot say but that I have as much to do as I had at home. There are the rooms to keep in order, marketing to do, my stones to wash every other day when it rains, as to-day, or snows; cooking at all times of the day, and that for people who are not always very civil, I a.s.sure you. Sometimes there are complaints that there are so few customers, for there was too high a price paid for the cafe--much too high. And then when men pa.s.sing come in for a drink, I am often afraid of them. Indeed, if I had not neighbours----"

"And your brother, is he content?" interrupted the farmer.

"Half and half. The pay is so poor, you see. Two francs at La Fromentiere go farther than three here."

The father hesitated a little. Then asked, lowering his voice:

"Tell me, perhaps he regrets what he has done? I have no son with me now, Lionore; I am wretched. Do you think that Francois would come back to his home?"

He forgave all, forgot all; he craved help from the children who had wronged him.

Eleonore's face changed abruptly. Drying her eyes with a corner of her handkerchief, she shook her pointed chignon, and replied drily:

"I do not think so, father. I would rather tell you so out straight.