“Oh, she thinks thee asleep,” said Willan.  “She told me at supper that she would not waken thee.”

All of which Mistress Jeanne heard distinctly, standing midway on the wide staircase, with Victorine’s supper of bread and milk in her hand.  She had like to have spilled the whole bowlful of milk for laughing.  But she stood still, holding her breath lest Victorine should hear her, till the conversation ceased, and she heard Victorine moving about in her room again.  Then she went in, and kissing Victorine, said:  “Eat thy supper now, and go to bed; it is late.  Good-night.  I’ll wake thee early enough in the morning to pay for not having called thee this afternoon.  Good-night.”

Then Jeanne went down to her own room, blew out her candle, and seated herself at the window to hear what would happen.

“My aunt’s candle is out; she hath gone to bed,” whispered Victorine, as holding Willan’s hand she stole softly down the outer stair.  “I do doubt much that I am doing wrong.”

“Nay, nay,” whispered Willan.  “Thou sweet one, what wrong can there be in thy walking a little time with me?  Thy aunt did let thee ride with me all the day.”  And he tenderly guided Victorine’s steps down the steep stairs.

“Pretty well! pretty well!” laughed Mistress Jeanne behind her casement; and as soon as the sound of Willan’s and Victorine’s steps had died away, she ran downstairs to tell Victor what had happened.  Victor was not so pleased as Jeanne; he did not share her confidence in Victorine’s character.

“Sacre!” he said; “what wert thou thinking of?  Dost want another niece to be fetched up in a convent?  Thou mayst thank thyself for it, if thou art grandmother to one.  I trust no man out of sight, and no girl.  The man’s in love with the girl, that is plain; but he means no marrying.”

“That thou dost not know,” retorted Jeanne.  “I tell thee he is an honorable, high-minded man, and as pure as if he were but just now weaned.  I know him, and thou dost not.  He will marry her, or he will leave her alone.”

“We shall see,” muttered the coarse old man as he walked away,—­“we shall see.  Like mother, like child.  I trust them not.”  And in a thorough ill-humor Victor betook himself to the courtyard.  What he heard there did not reassure him.  Old Benoit had seen Willan and Victorine going down through the poplar copse toward the pear orchard.  “And may the saints forsake me,” said Benoit, “if I do not think he had his arm around her waist and her head on his shoulder.  Think’st thou he will marry her?”

“Nay,” growled Victor; “he’s no fool.  That Jeanne hath set her heart on it, and thinketh it will come about; but not so I.”

“He seems of a rare fine-breeding and honorable speech,” said Benoit.

“Ay, ay,” replied Victor, “words are quick said, and fine manners come easy to some; but a man looks where he weds.”

“His father did not have chance for much looking,” sneered Benoit.