On the Friday evening of this particular week, all were seated in the front garden of the Cure's house, as Valmond came over the hill, going towards the Louis Quinze.
His step was light, his head laid slightly to one side, as if in pleased and inquiring reverie, and there was a lifting of one corner of the mouth, suggesting an amused disdain.

Was it that disdain which comes from conquest not important enough to satisfy ambition?
The social conquest of a village--to be conspicuous and attract the groundlings in this tiny theatre of life, that seemed little! Valmond appeared not to see the little coterie, but presently turned, when just opposite the gate, and, raising his hat, half paused.

Then, without more ado, he opened the gate and advanced to the outstretched hand of the Cure, who greeted him with a courtly affability.

He shook hands with, and nodded good-humouredly at, Medallion and the Little Chemist, bowed to the avocat, and touched off his greeting to Monsieur De la Riviere with deliberation, not offering his hand--this very reserve a sign of equality not lost on the young Seigneur.

He had not this stranger at any particular advantage, as he had wished, he knew scarcely why.