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Whilst Hullin, informed of the disasters that had befallen our armies, was walking with downcast head and knitted brows towards the village of Charmes, all was going on as usual at the farm of Bois-de-Chenes. The fantastic stories of Yegof -- the rumours of war -- were alike forgotten for the present; old Duchene led his oxen to the water, the shepherd Robin foddered his cattle, and Annette and Jeanne skimmed their pans of milk, and made their curds-and-whey. Catherine Lefevre alone, gloomy and silent, mused continually on the past, while, at the same time, overlooking with an impassive face the doings of her household. She was too old, and of too serious a nature, to forget from one day to the next anything that had so greatly moved her.
When night came, after the evening meal, she went into the inner apartment, where her people heard her take the heavy ledger from the cupboard, and lay it on the table, to make up her accounts, as it was her custom to do.