Valmond had, in a vague, graceless sort of way, worked upon the quick
emotions of Elise. Every little touch of courtesy had been returned to
him in half-shy, half-ardent glances; in flushes, which the kiss he had
given her the first day of their meeting had made the signs of an
intermittent fever; in modest yet alluring waylayings; in restless
nights, in half-tuneful, half-silent days; in a sweet sort of petulance.
She had kept in mind everything he had said to her; the playfully
emotional pressure of her hand, his eloquent talks with her uncle, the
old sergeant's rhapsodies on his greatness; and there was no place in the
room where he had sat or stood, which she had not made sacred--she, the
mad cap, who had lovers by the dozen. Importuned by the Cure and her
mother to marry, she had threatened, if they worried her further, to wed
fat Duclosse, the mealman, who had courted her in a ponderous way for at
least three years. The fire that corrodes, when it does not make
glorious without and within, was in her veins, and when Valmond should
call she was ready to come. She could not, at first, see that if he
were, in truth, a Napoleon, she was not for him. Seized of that wilful,
daring spirit called Love, her sight was bounded by the little field
where she strayed.

Elise's arm paused upon the lever of the bellows, when she saw Valmond
watching them from the door. He took off his hat to them, as Madelinette
turned towards him, the hammer pausing in the stroke.

"Ah, monseigneur!" she said impulsively, and then paused, confused.
Elise did not move, but stood looking at him, her eyes all flame, her
cheeks going a little pale, and flushing again. With a quick motion she
pushed her hair back, and as he stepped inside and closed the door behind
him, she blew the bellows, as if to give a brighter light to the place.