"The good dead—they will watch over you, mon petit!" she murmured. "We must not be afraid of them."
"This is not a time for talking nonsense, children," said Monsieur Joseph; he looked at them severely, his mouth trembling. "Half-past three at latest; the boy might lose his way in the dark."
Riette got up suddenly and flung her arms round Angelot's neck.
"Mon petit, mon petit!" she repeated, burying her face on his shoulder.
"What are you doing?" he cried. "How am I to finish my dinner? You come between me and the best pie that Marie ever made! Get along with you, little good-for-nothing!"
He laughed; then Marie's pie seemed to choke him; he pushed back his chair, lifted Riette lightly and carried her out of the room.
"Now I am in prison no longer," he said. "I am going to run across to La Marinière; will you come too, little cousin?"
But Monsieur Joseph had something to say to that. He would not let Angelot go without sermons so long that the boy could hardly listen to them, on the care he was to take that no servant or dog at La Marinière saw him, on the things he might and might not say to his mother.
At last Angelot said aside to Henriette: "There is only one thing I regret—that I did not go straight home at first to my father and mother. That will bring misfortune on us all, if anything does—my uncle is absolutely too much of a conspirator."