Mary knew how difficult it would be to mislead the clear-sighted solicitude of her old servant. She hesitated, blushed, and then, without deciding to tell the cause of her tears, she began to explain them. "I am crying, my poor Jean," she replied, "because I fear this war will cost me, perhaps, the lives of all I love." Mary, alas! had learned to lie since the previous evening. But Jean Oullier was not to be taken in with any such answer, and shaking his head gently, he said:-- "No, little Mary; that's not the cause of your tears. When old fellows like the marquis and I are caught by the glamor and see nothing in the coming struggle but victory, a young heart like yours doesn't go out of its way to predict reverses." Mary would not admit herself beaten. "And yet, Jean," she said, taking one of the coaxing attitudes which she knew by long practice were all-powerful over the will of the worthy man, "I assure you it is so." "No, no; it is not so, I tell you," persisted Jean Oullier, still grave, and growing more and more anxious. "What is it, then?" demanded Mary. "Ah!" said the old keeper; "do you want me to tell you the cause of your tears? Do you really want me to tell you that?" "Yes, if you can." "Well, your tears,--it is hard to say it, but I think it, I do,--they are caused by that miserable little Monsieur Michel; there!" Mary turned as white as the curtains of her bed; all her blood flowed back to her heart. "What do you mean, Jean?" she stammered. "I mean to say that you have seen as well as I what is going on, and that you don't like it any more than I do. Only, I'm a man, and I get in a rage; you are a girl, and you cry." Mary could not repress a sob as she felt Jean Oullier's finger in her wound. "It is not astonishing," continued the keeper, muttering to himself; "_wolf_ as they call you,--those curs,--you are still a woman, and a woman kneaded of the best flour that ever fell from the sifter of the good God." "Really, Jean, I don't understand you." "Oh, yes; you do understand me very well, little Mary. Yes; you have seen what is happening the same as I have. Who wouldn't see it?--good God! One must be blind not to, for she takes no pains to hide it." "But whom are you speaking of, Jean? Tell me; don't you see that you are killing me with anxiety?" "Whom should I be speaking of but Mademoiselle Bertha?" "My sister?" "Yes, your sister, who parades herself about with that greenhorn; who means to drag him in her train to our camp; and, meantime, having tied him to her apron-strings for fear he should get away, is exhibiting him to everybody all round as a conquest, without considering what the people in the house and the friends of the marquis will say,--not to speak of that mischievous notary, who is watching it all with his little eyes, and mending his pen already to draw the contract."