Jeanne knew, or felt without knowing, that the less she appeared to be conscious of anything unusual or unpleasant in this resumption of familiar relations on the surface, between herself and Willan, the more free his mind would be to occupy itself with Victorine; and she acted accordingly.  She never obtruded herself on his attention; she never betrayed any antagonism toward him, or any recollection of the former and different footing on which they had lived.  A stranger sitting at the table would not have dreamed, from anything in her manner to him, that she had ever occupied any other position than that of the landlord’s daughter and landlady of the inn.

A clear-sighted observer looking on at affairs in the Golden Pear for the next three days would have seen that all the energies of both Victor and Jeanne were bent to one end,—­namely, leaving the coast clear for Willan Blaycke to fall in love with Victorine.  But all that Willan thought was that Victor and his daughter were far quieter and modester people than he had supposed, and seemed disposed to keep themselves to themselves in a most proper fashion.  It never crossed his mind that there was anything odd in his finding Victorine so often and so long alone in the living-room; in the uniform disappearance of both Victor and Jeanne at an early hour in the evening.  Willan was too much in love to wonder at or disapprove of anything which gave him an opportunity of talking with Victorine, or, still better, of looking at her.

What he liked best was silently to watch her as she moved about, doing her light duties in her own graceful way.  He was not a voluble lover; he was still too much bewildered at his own condition.  Moreover, he had not yet shaken himself free from the tormenting disapproval of his conscience; he lost sight of that very fast, however, as the days sped on.  Victorine played her cards most admirably.  She did not betray even by a look that she understood that he loved her; she showed towards him an open and honest admiration, and an eager interest in all that he said or did,—­an almost affectionate good-will, too, in serving his every want, and trying to make the time of his detention pass pleasantly to him.

“It must be a sore trial, sir, for thee to be kept in a poor place like this so many days.  Benoit says that he thinks not thy horse can go safely for yet some days,” she said to Willan one morning.  “Would it amuse thee to ride over to Pierre Gaspard’s mill to-day?  If thou couldst abide the gait of my grandfather’s nag, I might go on my pony, and show thee the way.  The river is high now, and it is a fair sight to see the white blossoms along the banks.”

Cunning Victorine!  She had all sorts of motives in this proposition.  She thought it would be well to show Willan Blaycke to Pierre.  “He may discover that there are other men beside himself in the world,” she mused; and, “It would please me much to go riding up to the door for Annette to see with the same brave rider she did so admire;” and, “There are many ways to bring a man near one in riding through the woods.”  All these and many more similar musings lay hid behind the innocent look she lifted to Willan’s face as she suggested the ride.