e themselves.
The bright sun of the day before was no longer visible, and showers
had fallen, making the valley look less cheerful than usual in the wan
light.

Toward evening Father Fouchard, who was also haunted by a sensation of
uneasiness in the midst of his studied taciturnity, was standing on his
doorstep reflecting on the probable outcome of events. His son had no
place in his thoughts, but he was speculating how he best might convert
the misfortunes of others into fortune for himself, and as he revolved
these considerations in his mind he noticed a tall, strapping young
fellow, dressed in the peasant's blouse, who had been strolling up and
down the road for the last minute or so, looking as if he did not know
what to do with himself. His astonishment on recognizing him was so
great that he called him aloud by name, notwithstanding that three
Prussians happened to be passing at the time.

"Why, Prosper! Is that you?"

The chasseur d'Afrique imposed silence on him with an emphatic gesture;
then, coming closer, he said in an undertone:

"Yes, it is I. I have had enough of fighting for nothing, and I cut my
lucky. Say, Father Fouchard, you don't happen to be in need of a laborer
on your farm, do you?"

All the old man's prudence came back to him in a twinkling. He _was_
looking for someone to help him, but it would be better not to say so at
once.

"A lad on the farm? faith, no--not just now. Come in, though, all the
same, and have a glass. I shan't leave you out on the road when you're
in trouble, that's sure."

Silvine, in the kitchen, was setting the pot of soup on the fire, while
little Charlot was hanging by her skirts, frolicking and laughing. She
did not recognize Prosper at first, although they had formerly served
together in the same household, and it was not until she came in,
bringing a bottle of wine and two glasses, that she looked him squarely
in the face. She uttered a cry of joy and surprise; her sole thought was
of Honore.

"Ah, you were there, weren't you? Is Honore all right?"

Prosper's answer was ready to slip from his tongue; he hesitated.
For the last two days he had been living in a dream, among a rapid
succession of strange, ill-defined events which left behind them no
precise memory, as a man starts, half-awakened, from a slumber peopled
with fantastic visions. It was true, doubtless, he believed he had seen
Honore lying upon a cannon, dead, but he would not have cared to swear