and had never even spoken a word of tenderness to another girl.  She had given him her plighted troth, and now she was prepared to break it with the first man who asked her!  As he thought of this, his brow became black with anger.  But his regrets were as violent.  What a fool he had been to leave her there, open to persuasion from any man who came in the way, open to persuasion from his father, who would, of course, be his enemy.  How, indeed, could he expect that she should be true to him?  The year had been long enough to him, but it must have been doubly long to her.  He had expected that his father would send for him, would write to him, would at least transmit to him some word that would make him know that his presence was again desired at Granpere.  But his father had been as proud as he was, and had not sent any such message.  Or rather, perhaps, the father being older and less impatient, had thought that a temporary absence from Granpere might be good for his son.

It was late at night when George Voss went to bed, but he was up in the morning early to see Edmond Greisse before the roulage should start for Munster on its road to Granpere.  Early times in that part of the world are very early, and the roulage was ready in the back court of the inn at half-past four in the morning.

‘What? you up at this hour?’ said Edmond.

’Why not?  It is not every day we have a friend here from Granpere, so I thought I would see you off.’

‘That is kind of you.’

‘Give my love to them at the old house, Edmond.’

‘Of course I will.’

‘To father, and Madame Voss, and the children, and to Marie.’

‘All right.’

‘Tell Marie that you have told me of her marriage.’

‘I don’t know whether she’ll like to talk about that to me.’

’Never mind; you tell her.  She won’t bite you.  Tell her also that
I shall be over at Granpere soon to see her and the rest of them. 
I’ll be over—­as soon as ever I can get away.’

‘Shall I tell your father that?’

‘No.  Tell Marie, and let her tell my father.’

‘And when will you come?  We shall all be so glad to see you.’

’Never you mind that.  You just give my message.  Come in for a moment to the kitchen.  There’s a cup of coffee for you and a slice of ham.  We are not going to let an old friend like you go away without breaking his fast.’

As Greisse had already paid his modest bill, amounting altogether to little more than three francs, this was kind of the young landlord, and while he was eating his bread and ham he promised faithfully that he would give the message just as George had given it to him.

It was on the third day after the departure of Edmond Greisse that George told Madame Faragon that he was going home.

‘Going where, George?’ said Madame Faragon, leaning forward on the table before her, and looking like a picture of despair.