Marie had to explain matters. "Mere-Grand," said she, "this is Monsieur
l'Abbe Froment, Guillaume's brother; he has come from him."

Pierre on his side was examining the old lady, astonished to find her so
erect and full of life at seventy. Her former beauty had left a stately
charm on her rather long face; youthful fire still lingered in her brown
eyes; and very firm was the contour of her pale lips, which in parting
showed that she had retained all her teeth. A few white hairs alone
silvered her black tresses, which were arranged in old-time fashion. Her
cheeks had but slightly withered, and her deep, symmetrical wrinkles gave
her countenance an expression of much nobility, a sovereign air as of a
queen-mother, which, tall and slight of stature as she was, and
invariably gowned in black woollen stuff, she always retained, no matter
how humble her occupation.

"So Guillaume sent you, monsieur," she said; "he is injured, is he not?"

Surprised by this proof of intuition, Pierre repeated his story. "Yes,
his wrist is injured--but oh! it's not a case of immediate gravity."

On the part of the three sons, he had divined a sudden quiver, an impulse
of their whole beings to rush to the help and defence of their father.
And for their sakes he sought words of comfort: "He is with me at
Neuilly. And with due care it is certain that no serious complications
will arise. He sent me to tell you to be in no wise uneasy about him."

Mere-Grand for her part evinced no fears, but preserved great calmness,
as if the priest's tidings contained nothing beyond what she had known
already. If anything, she seemed rather relieved, freed from anxiety