ground his teeth with
restrained irritation. Joubard too looked grave. He had brought a
warning which had been lightly taken, he thought; yet looking sideways
at Monsieur Joseph, he could not help seeing that something, possibly
his words, was weighing on the little gentleman. There were plenty of
other things to talk about; the farm, the vintage, the war in Spain, the
chances of Martin's return, the works at Lancilly. Monsieur Joseph and
Joubard were both talkers; they were capable of chattering for hours
about nothing; but this evening conversation flagged, at least on
Monsieur Joseph's side. Perhaps it was the weather.

At last the old man was ready to go. He stood up, staring hard at
Monsieur Joseph in the twilight.

"Monsieur forgives me?" he said. "Perhaps I should have said nothing;
the police have their ways. They may ask questions without malice. And
yet one feels the difference between an honest man and a spy. Well, I
could have laughed, if I did not hate the fellow. As if the talk of a
few honest gentlemen could hurt the State!"

"Some day I hope it will," said Monsieur Joseph, coolly. "When the
rising comes, Joubard, you will be on the right side--if only to avenge
your sons, my good man!"

Joubard opened his eyes wider, hesitated, pushed his fingers through his
bushy hair.

"Me, monsieur! The rising! But, monsieur, I never said I was a Chouan! I
am afraid of some of them, though not of you, monsieur. They are people
who can be dangerous. A rising, you said! Then--"

"Don't talk of it now," said Monsieur Joseph, impatiently.

As he spoke, little Henriette came round the corner of the house with
some blue feathers in her hand. Tobie had been out shooting, making
havoc among the wild birds, large and small, and sparing the squirrels,
with regret, to please his master. Owls, kites, rooks, magpies, jays,
thrushes, finches; those that were eatable went into pies, and the
prettiest feathers were dressed and made into plumes for Mademoiselle
Henriette. She was fond of adorning her straw bonnet with jay's
feathers, which, as her uncle Urbain remarked, gave her the appearance
of one of Monsieur de Chateaubriand's squaws. "See, papa, what Tobie has
brought me," she cried. "Good evening, Maitre Joubard! How are your
chickens? and when will the vintage begin?"

Joubard would gladly have entered on a lengthy gossip with Mademoiselle
Henriette, but Monsieur Joseph, with a shortness very unlike him,
brought the i