Maître Marc crossed the highway rapidly and disappeared through the gate, which closed behind him. A white figure came out on the portico. "Who's there?" asked a woman's voice, but a strong, imperative voice. "I, Mademoiselle Bertha," responded Jean Oullier. "You are not alone, my friend?" "I have brought the gentleman from Paris who wishes to speak to Petit-Pierre." Bertha came down the steps and met the traveller. "Come in, monsieur," she said. And she led the way into a salon rather poorly furnished, though the floor was admirably waxed and the curtains irreproachably clean. A great fire was burning, and near the fire was a table on which a supper was already served. "Sit down, monsieur," said the young girl with perfect grace, which, however, was not without a certain masculine tone which gave it much originality. "You must be hungry and thirsty; pray eat and drink. Petit-Pierre is asleep; but he gave orders to be waked if any one arrived from Paris. You have just come from Paris, have you not?" "Yes, mademoiselle." "In ten minutes I will return." And Bertha disappeared like a vision. The traveller remained a few seconds motionless with amazement. He was an observer, and never had he seen more grace and more charm mingled with strength of will than in Bertha's demeanor. She might be, thought he, the young Achilles, disguised as a woman, before he saw the blade of Ulysses. Absorbed in this thought or in others allied to it, the traveller forgot to eat or drink. Bertha returned as she had promised. "Petit-Pierre is ready to receive you, monsieur," she said. The traveller rose; Bertha walked before him. She held in her hand a short taper, which she raised to light the staircase, and which lighted her own face at the same time. The traveller looked admiringly at her beautiful black hair and her fine black eyes, her ivory skin, with all its signs of youth and health, and the firm and easy poise of the figure, which seemed to typify a goddess. He murmured with a smile, remembering his Virgil,--that man who himself is a smile of antiquity,--"Incessu patuit dea!" The young girl rapped at the door of a bedroom. "Come in," replied a woman's voice. The door opened. The young girl bowed slightly and allowed the traveller to pass her. It was easy to see that humility was not her leading virtue. The traveller then passed in. The door closed behind him, and Bertha remained outside. IV. A LITTLE HISTORY DOES NO HARM. The room into which Maître Marc was now shown had been recently built; the plastered walls were damp, and the wainscot showed the fibre of its wood under the slight coating of paint that covered it. In this room, lying on a bedstead of common pine roughly put together, he saw a woman, and in that woman he recognized her Royal Highness the Duchesse de Berry.