rsed. The widow alone remained; and, advancing boldly
to Madame Georges, she said, in a resolute tone:

"I don't care for a word you say; and, as for this girl, she does not
quit this place until after she has deposed before the mayor as to all
she knows of my poor husband's murder."

"My good woman!" said Madame Georges, restraining herself by a violent
effort, "my daughter has no deposition to make here, but, at any future
period that justice may require her testimony let her be summoned, and
she shall attend with myself; until then no person has a right to
question her."

"But, madame, I say--"

Madame Georges prevented the milk-woman from proceeding by replying, in
a severe tone:

"The severe affliction you have experienced can scarcely excuse your
conduct, and you will one day regret the violence you have so improperly
excited. Mlle. Marie lives with me at the Bouqueval farm; inform the
judge who received your deposition of that circumstance, and say that we
await his further orders."

The widow, unable to argue against words so temperately and wisely
spoken, seated herself on the parapet of the drinking-place, and,
embracing her children, began to weep bitterly. Almost immediately after
this scene Pierre brought the chaise, into which Madame Georges and
Fleur-de-Marie mounted, to return to Bouqueval.

As they passed before the farmhouse of Arnouville, the Goualeuse
perceived Clara, who had hid herself behind a partly closed shutter,
weeping bitterly. She was evidently watching for a last glimpse of her
friend, to whom she waved her handkerchief in token of farewell.

"Ah, madame! what shame to me, and vexation to you, has arisen this
morning from our visit to Arnouville!" said Fleur-de-Marie to her
adopted parent, when they found themselves in the sitting-room at
Bouqueval; "you have probably quarrelled for ever with Madame Dubreuil,
and all on my account! Oh, I foresaw something terrible was about to
happen! God has justly punished me for deceiving that good lady and her
daughter! I am the unfortunate cause of perpetual disunion between
yourself and your friend."

"My dear child, my friend is a warm-hearted, excellent woman, but rather
weak; still I know her too well not to feel certain that by to-morrow
she will regret her foolish violence of to-day."

"Alas! madame, think not that I wish to take her part in preference to
yours. No, God forbid! but pardon me if I say that I fear your great
kindness