The younger feared nothing, but her mother was always apprehensive, and repeated continually:
“We'll come to grief one of these days. You see if we don't!”
This evening she was, if possible, more nervous than ever.
“Do you know what time your father will be back?” she asked.
“Oh, not before eleven, for certain. When he dines with the commandant he's always late.”
And Berthine was hanging her pot over the fire to warm the soup when she suddenly stood still, listening attentively to a sound that had reached her through the chimney.
“There are people walking in the wood,” she said; “seven or eight men at least.”
The terrified old woman stopped her spinning wheel, and gasped:
“Oh, my God! And your father not here!”
She had scarcely finished speaking when a succession of violent blows shook the door.