Francoise remained in the middle of the courtyard.  Prussian soldiers passed, laughing.  Some of them spoke to her, uttered jokes she could not understand.  She stared at the door through which her father had disappeared.  With a slow movement she put her hand to her forehead, as if to prevent it from bursting.

The officer turned upon his heel, saying: 

“You have two hours.  Try to utilize them.”

She had two hours.  This phrase buzzed in her ears.  Then mechanically she quitted the courtyard; she walked straight ahead.  Where should she go?—­what should she do?  She did not even try to make a decision because she well understood the inutility of her efforts.  However, she wished to see Dominique.  They could have an understanding together; they might, perhaps, find an expedient.  And amid the confusion of her thoughts she went down to the shore of the Morelle, which she crossed below the sluice at a spot where there were huge stones.  Her feet led her beneath the first willow, in the corner of the meadow.  As she stooped she saw a pool of blood which made her turn pale.  It was there the murder had been committed.  She followed the track of Dominique in the trodden grass; he must have run, for she perceived a line of long footprints stretching across the meadow.  Then farther on she lost these traces.  But in a neighboring field she thought she found them again.  The new trail conducted her to the edge of the forest, where every indication was effaced.

Francoise, nevertheless, plunged beneath the trees.  It solaced her to be alone.  She sat down for an instant, but at the thought that time was passing she leaped to her feet.  How long had it been since she left the mill?  Five minutes?—­half an hour?  She had lost all conception of time.  Perhaps Dominique had concealed himself in a copse she knew of, where they had one afternoon eaten filberts together.  She hastened to the copse, searched it.  Only a blackbird flew away, uttering its soft, sad note.  Then she thought he might have taken refuge in a hollow of the rocks, where it had sometimes been his custom to lie in wait for game, but the hollow of the rocks was empty.  What good was it to hunt for him?  She would never find him, but little by little the desire to discover him took entire possession of her, and she hastened her steps.  The idea that he might have climbed a tree suddenly occurred to her.  She advanced with uplifted eyes, and that he might be made aware of her presence she called him every fifteen or twenty steps.  Cuckoos answered; a breath of wind which passed through the branches made her believe that he was there and was descending.  Once she even imagined she saw him; she stopped, almost choked, and wished to fly.  What was she to say to him?  Had she come to take him back to be shot?  Oh no, she would not tell him what had happened.  She would cry out to him to escape, not to remain in the neighborhood.  Then the thought that her father was waiting for her gave her a sharp pain.  She fell upon the turf, weeping, crying aloud: