"I will try," she moaned, "I will try; but oh, it is horrible."
"Hush!" exclaimed her aunt sharply, "listen."
I had been too much occupied with Marie to pay attention to anything else, but now I distinctly heard the sound of voices on the other side of the door.
"Poor child," a woman was saying softly, "she is half dead with fright. Let her come in, I say."
"But the rioters?" exclaimed a second person.
"Pouf! The street is clear enough. Take down the bar, Jules." Then we heard a sound as of a heavy bar being removed.
The door opened ever so slightly and a woman cried, "Quick, come in, before you are seen. Where is the poor girl? Cheer up, my little one, no one shall harm you here. Now, Jules, put up the bar again! Ah! that is right. This way, monsieur," and she led us all into a tiny room, poorly furnished, but neat and clean.
She was a comely woman of middle age, rather short, with bright keen eyes, and pleasant face: her husband, Jules, was a ruddy-cheeked man, bald on the top of his head, but with a ring of stiff white hair which stood up like a fence.
"It is really very generous of you to risk so much for strangers," I began, but the woman would not let me finish.
"One cannot let a child die for want of a helping hand," said she briskly, "and as for these brigands, I would cut off all their heads at a blow. Ah, it is easy to see that you do not belong to the canaille."