"Seigneur! Don't put it on me. What is there to advise?"
As she spoke, with a shrug of her plump shoulders, Marguerite came forward. In her white undergarment, with her brown hair loose and curling, and her brown eyes brimmed with tears, she looked like a punished child. Even the smuts on her face seemed to add somehow to the youth and pathos of her appearance.
"Oh, Aline," she said, with a half sob, "where am I to go? What am I to do?" And in a moment the mother in Madelon melted in her.
"There, there, little Ma'mselle," she said quickly, "there 's nothing to cry about. You shall come along with me, and if I can't give you as fine a bed as you had in this old gloomy place, at any rate it will be a safer one, and, please the Saints, you 'll not be burnt out of it."
"No, no, Madelon, you mustn't," said Mlle Ange.
"And why not, chère Ma'mselle?"
"The danger—your father—your good husband. It would not be fair. I will not let you do what you have just said would be so dangerous."
"Dangerous for you, but not for me. Who is going to suspect me? As to Jean Jacques, you need n't be afraid of him. Thank God he is no meddler, and what I do is right in his eyes."
"Dear child, he is a good husband; but—but just now you should not have anxiety or run any risks."
Madelon laughed, and then grew suddenly grave.