shambling, silent man, now working in the vineyard beneath the
walls. He always did what his wife told him, without comment or
enthusiasm, knowing well that he would be blamed for doing it badly.

The Abbe had visited the rooms once before, during a brief passage
of the Marquis, soon after his wife's death in Paris. But, as a
rule, only Marie and Jean had access to the apartment. He looked
round with an eye always ready with the tear of sympathy; for he was
a soft-hearted man. Then he looked at Marie again, shamefacedly.
But she, divining his thoughts, shrugged her shoulders.

"Ah, bah!" she said, "one must take the world as it is. And
Monsieur le Marquis is only a man. One sees that, when he announces
his return on washing-day, and brings a guest. You must write to
him, that is all, and tell him that with time I can arrange, but not
in a hurry like this. Where is the furniture to come from? A chair
or two from the banquet-hall; I can lend a bed which Jean can carry
in after dark so that no one knows; you have the jug and basin you
bought when the Bishop came, that you must lend--" She broke off
and ran to the window. "Good," she cried, in a despairing voice, "I
hear a carriage coming up the hill. Run, Monsieur l'Abbe--run to
the gate and bolt it. Guest or no guest, they cannot see the rooms
like this. Here, let me past."

She pushed him unceremoniously aside at the head of the stairs and
ran past him. Long concealment of the deadly poverty within the
walls had taught her to close the gates behind her whenever she
entered, but now for greater security, or to gain time, she swung
the great oaken beam round on its pivot across the doors on the
inside. Then turning round on her heels she watched the bell that