these days--especially in the dark, by one's self."

He seemed to know the shawls, for he disentangled them with skill
and laid them aside, one by one.

The Comtesse de Chantonnay breathed a little more freely, but no
friendly hand could disencumber her of the mountains of flesh, which
must have weighed down any heart less buoyant and courageous.

"Ah, bah!" she cried, gaily. "Who is afraid? What could they do to
an old woman? Ah! you hold up your hands. That is kind of you.
But I am no longer young, and there is my Albert--with those stupid
whiskers. It is unfilial to wear whiskers, and I have told him so.
And you--who could harm you--a priest? Besides, no one could be a
priest, and not a Royalist, Abbe!"

"I know it, Madame, and that is why I am one. Have we been seen,
Madame la Comtesse? The village was quiet, as you came through?"

"Quiet as my poor husband in his grave. Tell me, Abbe, now,
honestly, am I thinner? I have deprived myself of coffee these two
days."

The Abbe walked gravely round her. It was quite an excursion.

"Who would have you different, Madame, to what you are?" he
temporized. "To be thin is so ungenerous. And Albert--where is he?
You have not surely come alone?"

"Heaven forbid!--and I a widow!" replied Madame de Chantonnay,