The cold was intense on that December evening. Silvine and Prosper,
together with little Charlot, were alone in the great kitchen of the
farmhouse, she busy with her sewing, he whittling away at a whip that
he proposed should be more than usually ornate. It was seven o'clock;
they had dined at six, not waiting for Father Fouchard, who they
supposed had been detained at Raucourt, where there was a scarcity of
meat, and Henriette, whose turn it was to watch that night at the
hospital, had just left the house, after cautioning Silvine to be sure
to replenish Jean's stove with coal before she went to bed.
Outside a sky of inky blackness overhung the white expanse of snow. No
sound came from the village, buried among the drifts; all that was to
be heard in the kitchen was the scrapin
