"Yes", replied Marguerite with bitterness; "the wife of Marcel, the idol of the people ... of Marcel, the real king of Paris, is envied. They envy the companion of that great citizen. Oh, they should rather pity her.... Tender indulgences ... sweet joys of the hearth, the happiness of the humblest ... since long I know you no more! The artisan, the merchant, their day's labors being done, at least enjoy in the bosom of their families some rest until the morrow. My poor husband, on the contrary, spends his nights at work ... while I, his wife, remain a prey to constant uneasiness night and day, ever fearing for his life or his son's!"
"You have no reason to tremble for the life of Master Marcel, who can not take a step without he is surrounded by a crowd of devoted friends."
"I fear the Regent's hatred, and that of the nobles and prelates."
At that moment Agnes the Bigot, Marguerite's confidential servant, entered the room and said to her mistress: "Madam, the wife of Master Maillart, the councilman, has come to visit you."
"So late! Did you tell her I was home?"
"Yes, madam."
Marguerite made a gesture of impatience and annoyance, dried her tears and said to Denise in an undertone: "You just mentioned envious women.... Petronille Maillart is of the number.... Hide your tears, I pray you, to avoid her drawing wrongful conclusions from our sadness. She is cruelly jealous of the popularity of Marcel; and Maillart, I believe, shares the feelings of his wife."
"Can Maillart be jealous of my uncle, the friend of his childhood!"
"Maillart is a weak man whom his wife dominates."
"Maillart is always speaking about running to arms, and of massacring the nobles and priests."