"'God's death!' he cried; 'you recruit so badly that I am obliged to get some one to help your work. Yes, Monsieur Michel is one of us; and if you don't like it go and find fault with Mademoiselle Bertha.'"
"He said that to you, my poor Jean?"
"Yes; and I mean to have a talk with Mademoiselle Bertha, that I do."
"Jean, my friend, take care!"
"Take care of what?"
"Take care not to grieve her, not to make her angry. She loves him, Jean," said Mary, in a voice that was scarcely audible.
"Ah! then you do admit she loves him?" cried Jean Oullier.
"I am forced to do so," said Mary.
"Love a little puppet that a breath can tip over!" sneered Jean Oullier,--"she, Mademoiselle Bertha, change her name, one of the oldest in the land, one of the names that make our glory, the peasants' glory, as they do that of the men who bear them,--change a name like that for the name of a coward and a traitor!"
Mary's heart was wrung in her bosom.