“Jacques,” said Jeanne-Marie, “go at once for the doctor, and tell him to come here, for some one is very ill.”

“Hein?” said Jacques again, “does that concern me?  I must attend to my own affairs, and finish my wine, Jeanne-Marie.”

“If you do not go this moment,” said the woman, with a little stamp of her foot, “you shall never taste my wine again, with or without payment, Jacques, et je tiens parole, moi!”

“There is other wine to be had in Le Trooz,” answered the man sulkily, but moving nevertheless towards the entrance, when she was recalled by Jeanne-Marie.

“Jacques,” she said, coming two or three steps down the stairs, “if Monsieur le Docteur inquires who is ill, you will say it is my niece.”

“But she is then your niece, la petite,” said Jacques, scratching his head as an outward expression of some inward perplexity.

“You will tell Monsieur le Docteur what I say,” repeated Jeanne-Marie imperiously, “and make haste;” and she went upstairs again, and closed the bed-room with a certain emphasis, as though to prevent further discussion.

Madelon was still lying on the bed, with her face buried in the pillow; a violent shivering of cold or of fear had seized her, but she resisted Jeanne-Marie’s efforts to raise her with the obstinacy of a strong will acted on by intense physical alarm.  But at length the woman’s persuasive words appeared to have a soothing effect, though she seemed scarcely to take in their meaning, for she allowed herself to be undressed and put into bed, and after taking some warm drink, fell into a restless, starting sleep.

Jeanne-Marie drew a curtain across the small window, so as to shut out the slanting sunbeams, which were pouring into the room, on to the patchwork quilt and white pillow where the little feverish head lay so uneasily; then, taking up her knitting, she sat down by the bedside, and as she mechanically added row after row to the blue worsted stocking, she reflected.  From Madelon’s few distracted words, she imagined that she knew the state of the case very well; it was one not unprecedented, and presented no difficulties to either comprehension of belief.  “They wanted to bring her up as a nun, and so she ran away.  Well, thou hast done wisely, little one; I also know something of convents and nuns, and if it depends on me to protect thee, they shall not touch thee, mon enfant.”  This was her final resolution as she sat knitting and reflecting, with a great sympathy with, and tenderness for, the poor little terrified, hunted girl, lying there at her mercy.