And the little children repeated these words: "Vive la France! Vive la Republique!"
At this moment a strange scene took place on the Square. Two shadows, dimly seen in the twilight, were kneeling before the inn. No one had seen them approach. Pierre Labarre was the first to notice them, and he felt a quick contraction of the heart that heralded some unlooked-for event. He rose quickly, and signed to the children to keep perfectly still. He nearly reached the two unknown without their hearing him. He saw that one was endeavoring to raise the other, who seemed to be infirm. She extended her hand to the inn, and seemed to be saying something, and then the two slowly mounted the steps of the inn.
Pierre, who was very near them, heard a sob. Who could they be? Pierre asked himself. The two strangers were now in the large room, where nothing seemed changed since the day that the wounded soldier leaned against the wall, exhausted by suffering and fatigue. There was the huge chimney, and there the shining tables.
The infirm woman now walks unaided. She goes straight to the fireplace, and seats herself in a chair. She looks at the door eagerly and expectantly.
Labarre again asked himself who this woman was, and what frightful accident had so injured her. Suddenly, while Labarre was watching her, the woman smiled.
"Ah! you have come, Simon!" she said with a smile, as if speaking to some one who had just come in. "The children are waiting for you, and the soup is ready. Jacques has been good, but you must talk to Cinette—she is a perfect little fiend, sometimes!"
Labarre, with his heart in his mouth, clutched at the wall to prevent himself from falling.
"Come! Cinette—come; you must not be naughty!"
It was plain to Labarre who this person was—he had heard her voice before. But this girl—who was she?
The old man now entered the room. The girl saw him, and said, apologetically: