There was not the same ceaselessly active eye, nor
the vibration of the impatient body which belonged to the money-master
and miller of the Manor Cartier. Yet the eye had more depth and force,
and the body was more powerful and vigorous than it had ever been. The
long tramping, the everlasting trail on false scents, the mental battling
with troubles past and present, had given a fortitude and vigour to the
body beyond what it had ever known. In spite of his homelessness and
pilgrim equipment he looked as though he had a home--far off. The eyes
did not smile; but the lips showed the goodness of his heart--and its
hardness too. Hardness had never been there in the old days. It was,
however, the hardness of resentment, and not of cruelty. It was not his
wife's or his daughter's flight that he resented, nor yet the loss of all
he had, nor the injury done him by Sebastian Dolores. No, his resentment
was against one he had never seen, but was now soon to see. As his mind
came back from the far places where it had been, and his eyes returned to
the concrete world, he saw what the woman recalled to him. It was--yes,
it was Virginie Poucette--the kind and beautiful Virginie--for her
goodness had made him remember her as beautiful, though indeed she was
but comely, like this woman who stayed him as he walked by the river.
"You are M'sieu' Jean Jacques Barbille?" she said questioningly.
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