At that moment Agnes the Bigot, Marguerite's confidential servant, entered the room and said to her mistress: "Madam, the wife of Master Maillart, the councilman, has come to visit you." "So late! Did you tell her I was home?" "Yes, madam." Marguerite made a gesture of impatience and annoyance, dried her tears and said to Denise in an undertone: "You just mentioned envious women.... Petronille Maillart is of the number.... Hide your tears, I pray you, to avoid her drawing wrongful conclusions from our sadness. She is cruelly jealous of the popularity of Marcel; and Maillart, I believe, shares the feelings of his wife." "Can Maillart be jealous of my uncle, the friend of his childhood!" "Maillart is a weak man whom his wife dominates." "Maillart is always speaking about running to arms, and of massacring the nobles and priests." "Violence is not strength, Denise; the most excited natures usually are the least firm.... But silence! Here is Petronille.... What can be the purpose of a visit at this hour?" Petronille Maillart entered. She was still in her mourning garb. From the instant of her entrance she darted an inquisitive glance at the wife of Marcel and at Denise, and undoubtedly observed the traces of recent tears, seeing that a smile flitted over her lips. Affecting great sympathy she said: "Excuse me, Dame Marguerite, for coming to your house at so late an hour; but I wished to speak to you upon serious matters." "You are always welcome, Dame Petronille." "I fear not, at this moment. Sorrow loves solitude, and I notice with pain that your eyes and those of your dear niece are still red with tears. Just heaven! Do you entertain any fears for our excellent friend Marcel. Do the people, perhaps, incline to deny the value of the services he has rendered Paris? Ingratitude of the masses!" "Be at ease, Dame Petronille," answered Marguerite interrupting her. "Thanks to God, I entertain no fears on the score of my husband. It is true Denise and I feel sad. Shortly before you came in, we were speaking of a friend whose fate is making us uneasy. You have often seen him here. It is Jocelyn the Champion." "Surely; I remember him well. A veritable Hercules ... was the poor fellow killed?" "No; we are not ready to believe that such a misfortune has happened. But it is a long time we have not heard from him." "Nothing more natural, Dame Marguerite. I can now account for your tears.... But let me come to the purpose of my visit, which, seeing the lateness of the hour, must seem strange to you. The curfew has sounded long ago. You know how attached Maillart and I are to you and your husband." "I feel thankful for your friendship." "Now, then, the duty of good friends is to speak frankly." "Certainly, there is nothing more precious than sincere friends. Pray speak, Dame Petronille!"