"Mother," she said, "if any stranger asks to pass the night at the inn say we have no room. No one must enter the house this night; the hand of God is upon it."
The person outside rapped again.
"Who's there?" said the widow, opening the door, but barring the way with her own person.
Bertha appeared on the threshold.
"You sent me word this morning, madame," said the young girl, "that you had an important communication to make to me."
"You are right," said the widow. "I had wholly forgotten it."
"Good God!" cried Bertha, noticing that Marianne's kerchief was stained with blood, "has any harm happened to my people,--to Mary, my father, Michel?"
And in spite of her strength of mind, this last thought shook her so terribly that she leaned against the wall to keep herself from falling.
"Don't be uneasy," answered the widow. "I have no misfortune to tell you; on the contrary, I am to say that an old friend whom you thought lost is living, and wants to see you."
"Jean Oullier!" cried Bertha, instantly guessing whom she meant, "Jean Oullier! It is he whom you mean, isn't it? He is living? Oh, God be thanked! my father will be so glad! Take me to him at once,--at once, I entreat you!"