There stood Bertha, erect and motionless, on the threshold. The eye of the lantern, as we have said, was turned toward the door, so that the light was concentrated on Bertha's face. Mary could therefore see plainly how white her sister was, and also how pain and anger were gathering upon that frowning brow and behind those lips so violently contracted. She was so terrified by the unexpected and almost menacing apparition that she pushed away the young man, whose hand had not left hers, and went up to her sister. But Bertha, who had now entered the turret, did not stop to meet Mary. Pushing her aside with her hand as though she were an inert object, she went straight to Michel. "Monsieur," she said, in a ringing voice, "has my sister not told you that Monsieur Loriot, your mother's notary, is in the salon and wishes to speak to you?" Michel muttered a few words. "You will find him in the salon," continued Bertha, in the tone of voice she would have used in giving an order. Michel, cast suddenly back into his usual timidity and all his terrors, stood up in a confused and vacillating manner without saying a word, and turned to leave the room, like a child detected in a fault who obeys without having the courage to excuse himself. Mary took the lantern to light him down, but Bertha snatched it from her hand and put it into that of the young man, making him a sign to go. "But you, mademoiselle?" he ventured to say. "We know the house," replied Bertha. Then stamping her foot impatiently, as she noticed that Michel's eyes were seeking those of Mary, "Go, go! I tell you; go!" she exclaimed. The young man disappeared, leaving the two young girls without other light than the pale gleam of a half-veiled moon, which entered the turret through the narrow casement. Left alone with her sister, Mary expected to be severely blamed for the impropriety of her conduct in permitting such a _tête-à-tête_,--an impropriety of which she herself was now fully aware. In this she was mistaken. As soon as Michel had disappeared down the spiral stairway, and Bertha, with her ears strained to the door, had heard him leave the tower, she seized her sister's hand, and pressing it with a force which proved the violence of her feelings, asked in a choking voice:-- "What was he saying to you on his knees?" For all answer Mary threw herself on her sister's neck, and in spite of Bertha's efforts to repulse her she wound her arms about her and kissed her, moistening Bertha's face with the tears that flowed from her own eyes. "Why are you angry with me, dear sister?" she said. "It is not being angry with you, Mary, to ask what a young man whom I find kneeling at your feet was saying to you." "But this is not the way you usually speak to me." "What matters it how I usually speak to you? What I wish and what I exact is that you answer my question." "Bertha! Bertha!"