She put the letter back, went to the door again, and looked out. It was
now time to go. Drawing a hood over her head, she stepped out into the
night. There was a little frost, though spring was well forward, and the
smell of the rich earth and the budding trees was sweet to the sense.
The moon had just set, but the stars were shining, and here and there
patches of snow on the hillside and in the fields added to the light.
Yet it was not bright enough to see far, and as Rosalie moved down the
street she did not notice a figure at a little distance behind, walking
on the new-springing grass by the roadside. All was quiet at the tavern;
there was no light in the Notary's house--as a rule, he sat up late,
reading; and even the fiddle of Maximilian Cour, the baker, was silent.
The Cure's windows were dark, and the church with its white tin spire
stood up sentinel-like above the village.

Rosalie had the fateful cross in her hand as she softly opened the gate
of the churchyard and approached the great oak doors. Taking a screw-
driver and some screws from her pocket, she felt with a finger for the
old screw-holes in the door. Then she began her work, looking fearfully
round once or twice at first. Presently, however, because the screws
were larger than the old ones, it became much harder; the task called
forth more strength, and drove all thought of being seen out of her mind
for a space. At last, however, she gave the final turn to the handle,
and every screw was in its place, its top level and smooth with the iron
of the cross. She stopped and looked round again with an uneasy feeling.
She could see no one, hear no one, but she began to tremble, and,
overcome, she fell on her knees before the door, and, with her fingers on
the foot of the little cross, prayed passionately; for herself, for
Monsieur.

Suddenly she heard footsteps inside the church. They were coming towards