CHAPTER FIVE
MARIANNE
Monsieur le Curé slid the long chair up to my fire, bent his straight, black body forward, and rubbing his chilled hands briskly before the blazing logs, announced with a smile of content:
"Marianne is out of jail."
"Sacristi!" I exclaimed, "and in mid-winter! It must be cold enough in that hut of hers by the marsh—poor old girl."
"And not a sou to be earned fishing," added the curé.
"Tell me about this last crime of hers," I asked.