A carriage drove slowly down the road and stopped at the gate with the
scissors; then, in obedience to some command from within, the vehicle
drove on to the smaller gate beyond. An old man with white hair and
bristling mustache slowly alighted. The master had come home. He put
out his hand as if to ring the bell, then on second thought drew a key
from his pocket and fitted it in the lock. The gate swung back and he
passed inside. The old house looked gray and forbidding in the dull
light of the late afternoon. He frowned up at it, and it frowned down on
him, standing there as cold and grim as itself. That was his
only welcome.
The doors and windows were all shut, so that he caught only a faint
sound of the bump, thump of the scrubbing-brush as it accompanied
Henri's high-pitched tune down the back stairs.
Without giving any warning of his arrival, he motioned the man beside
the coachman to follow with his trunk, and silently led the way
up-stairs. When the trunk had been unstrapped and the man had departed,
monsieur gave one slow glance all around the room. It was in perfect
readiness for him. He set a match to the kindling laid in the grate, and
then closed the door into the hall. The master had come home again, more
silent, more mysterious in his movements than before.
Henri finished his scrubbing and his song, and, going down into the
kitchen, began preparations for supper.
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