When they reached the summit of the rocks of
Saint-Sulpice Barbette set fire to the pile of fagots, and the boy
helped her to pile on the green gorse, damp with hoarfrost, to make
the smoke more dense.
"That fire will last longer than your father, longer than I, longer
than the Gars," said Barbette, in a savage voice.
While the widow of Galope-Chopine and her son with his bloody foot
stood watching, the one, with a gloomy expression of revenge, the
other with curiosity, the curling of the smoke, Mademoiselle de
Verneuil's eyes were fastened on the same rock, trying, but in vain,
to see her lover's signal. The fog, which had thickened, buried the
whole region under a veil, its gray tints obscuring even the outlines
of the scenery that was nearest the town. She examined with tender
anxiety the rocks, the castle, the buildings, which loomed like
shadows through the mist. Near her window several trees stood out
against this blue-gray background; the sun gave a dull tone as of
tarnished silver to the sky; its rays colored the bare branches of the
trees, where a few last leaves were fluttering, with a dingy red. But
too many dear and delightful sentiments filled Marie's soul to let her
notice the ill-omens of a scene so out of harmony with the joys she
was tasting in advance. For the last two days her ideas had undergone
a change.
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