“Why, she is only thirteen years old!”

“I know that, madame.  But you will admit that a woman who is three months pregnant and means to nurse her child herself may have some fears; but as I did not want to speak of this before those gentlemen, I talked a great deal of nonsense when you questioned me,” said the generous creature, adroitly.

Madame Michaud was not really afraid of Genevieve Niseron, but for the last three days she was in mortal terror of some disaster from the peasantry.

“How did you discover this?” said the countess.

“From everything and from nothing,” replied Olympe.  “The poor little thing moves with the slowness of a tortoise when she is obliged to obey me, but she runs like a lizard when Justin asks for anything, she trembles like a leaf at the sound of his voice; and her face is that of a saint ascending to heaven when she looks at him.  But she knows nothing about love; she has no idea that she loves him.”

“Poor child!” said the countess with a smile and tone that were full of naivete.

“And so,” continued Madame Michaud, answering with a smile the smile of her late mistress, “Genevieve is gloomy when Justin is out of the house; if I ask her what she is thinking of she replies that she is afraid of Monsieur Rigou, or some such nonsense.  She thinks people envy her, though she is as black as the inside of a chimney.  When Justin is patrolling the woods at night the child is as anxious as I am.  If I open my window to listen for the trot of his horse, I see a light in her room, which shows me that La Pechina (as they call here) is watching and waiting too.  She never goes to bed, any more than I do, till he comes in.”

“Thirteen!” exclaimed the countess; “unfortunate child!”

“Unfortunate? no.  This passion will save her.”

“From what?” asked Madame de Montcornet.

“From the fate which overtakes nearly all the girls of her age in these parts.  Since I have taught her cleanliness she is much less ugly than she was; in fact, there is something odd and wild about her which attracts men.  She is so changed that you would hardly recognize her.  The son of that infamous innkeeper of the Grand-I-Vert, Nicolas, the worst fellow in the whole district, wants her; he hunts her like game.  Though I can’t believe that Monsieur Rigou, who changes his servant-girls every year or two is persecuting such a little fright, it is quite certain that Nicolas Tonsard is.  Justin told me so.  It would be a dreadful fate, for the people of this valley actually live like beasts; but Justin and our two servants and I watch her carefully.  Therefore don’t be uneasy, madame; she never goes out alone except in broad daylight, and then only as far as the gate of Conches.  If by chance she fell into an ambush, her feeling for Justin would give her strength and wit to escape; for all women who have a preference in their hearts can resist a man they hate.”