"Reflect, Madame," continued the widow; "reflect that before what you are attempting can be accomplished, many and many a poor man, whose only crime is to have loved you well,--many fathers, many sons, many brothers,--will be, like this one, lying dead. Reflect that many widows, many sisters, many orphans will be weeping and mourning, as I do, for him who was all their love and all their stay!" "My God! my God!" exclaimed the princess, bursting into tears, as she fell on her knees and raised her arms to heaven; "if we are mistaken,--if we must render an account to thee for all these hearts we are about to break--" Her voice, drowned in tears, died away in a moan. XLI. THE SEARCH. A knock was heard on the trap-door leading to the garret. "What is the matter?" cried Bonneville's voice. He had heard a few words of what had passed, and became uneasy. "Nothing, nothing," said the young woman, pressing the hand of her hostess with an affectionate strength that showed the impression the poor widow's words had made upon her. Then, giving another tone to her voice, she cried out cheerfully, going a few steps up the ladder to speak more easily, "And you--?" The trap-door opened, and the smiling face of Bonneville looked down. "How are you getting on?" said the peasant-woman, ending her sentence. "All ready to do it over again, if your service requires it," he replied. She thanked him by a smile. "Who was it came here just now?" asked Bonneville. "A peasant named Courtin, who didn't seem to be one of our friends." "Ah, ha! the mayor of La Logerie?" "That's the man." "I know him," continued Bonneville; "Michel told me about him. He is a dangerous man. You ought to have had him followed." "By whom? There is no one here." "By Joseph Picaut." "You know our brave Jean Oullier's repugnance to him." "And yet he's a White," cried the widow,--"a White, who stood by and let them kill his brother." The duchess and Bonneville both gave a start of horror. "Then it is far better we should not mix him in our affairs," said Bonneville. "He would bring a curse with him. But have you no one we could put as sentry near the house, Madame Picaut?" "Jean Oullier has provided some one, and I have sent my nephew on to the moor of Saint-Pierre; he can see over the whole country from there." "But he is only a child," said the pretended peasant-woman. "Safer than certain men," said the widow. "After all," remarked Bonneville, "we haven't long to wait; it will be dark in three hours, and then our friends will be here with horses." "Three hours!" said the young woman, whose mind had been painfully pre-occupied ever since her talk with the widow. "Many things may happen in three hours, my poor Bonneville." "Some one is running in," cried Marianne Picaut, rushing from the window to the door, which she opened quickly. "Is it you, nephew?" "Yes, aunt; yes!" cried the boy, out of breath.