Mary, alas! had learned to lie since the previous evening. But Jean Oullier was not to be taken in with any such answer, and shaking his head gently, he said:--
"No, little Mary; that's not the cause of your tears. When old fellows like the marquis and I are caught by the glamor and see nothing in the coming struggle but victory, a young heart like yours doesn't go out of its way to predict reverses."
Mary would not admit herself beaten. "And yet, Jean," she said, taking one of the coaxing attitudes which she knew by long practice were all-powerful over the will of the worthy man, "I assure you it is so."
"No, no; it is not so, I tell you," persisted Jean Oullier, still grave, and growing more and more anxious.
"What is it, then?" demanded Mary.
"Ah!" said the old keeper; "do you want me to tell you the cause of your tears? Do you really want me to tell you that?"
"Yes, if you can."
"Well, your tears,--it is hard to say it, but I think it, I do,--they are caused by that miserable little Monsieur Michel; there!"
Mary turned as white as the curtains of her bed; all her blood flowed back to her heart.
"What do you mean, Jean?" she stammered.