“And it is because you loved me, unhappy boy! that you enlisted?”
“Did you not say that you would turn me away from the mill?”
“And have I turned you away?” asked Madame Polet, with an expression which it was impossible to misinterpret.
“Ah! God! then you would not really have sent me away?” asked Landry.
“Poor boy!” said the mistress of the mill, with a smile and a pitying movement of the shoulders, which, at any other time, would have made Landry almost die of joy, but, as it was, only doubled his distress.
“Perhaps even now I might have time to hide,” he said.
“Hide!” said Thibault, “that will be of no use, I can tell you.”
“And why not?” said Madame Polet, “I am going to try, anyhow. Come, dear Landry.”
And she led the young man away, with every mark of the most loving sympathy.
Thibault followed them with his eyes: “It’s going badly for you, Thibault, my friend,” he said; “fortunately, let her hide him as cleverly as she may, they have a good scent, and will find him out.”