"Jean, my friend," she said; "you go too far, Jean. Don't say such things, I entreat you."
"It shall not be," continued Jean Oullier, paying no heed to Mary's interruption, and walking up and down the room; "no, it shall not be. If all the rest are indifferent to the family honor I will watch over it, and rather than see it tarnished I,--well, I will--"
And Jean Oullier made a threatening gesture, the meaning of which was unmistakable.
"No, Jean; no, you would never do that," cried Mary, in a heart-rending voice. "I implore you with clasped hands."
And she almost fell forward on her knees. The Vendéan stepped back, horrified.
"You,--you, too, little Mary?" he cried; "you love--"
But she did not give him time to end his sentence.
"Think, Jean, only think of the grief you would cause to my dear Bertha."
Jean Oullier was looking at her in stupefaction, only half-relieved of the suspicion he had just conceived, when Bertha's voice was heard ordering Michel to wait for her in the garden and on no account to go away. Almost at the same moment she opened the door of her sister's room.
"Well!" she exclaimed; "is this how you get ready?" Then, looking closer at Mary and noticing the trouble in her face, she continued, "What is the matter? You have been crying! And you, Jean Oullier,--you look as cross as a bear. What's going on here?"