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"You have a protector of your own," said Marie maliciously, giving in an undertone Marche-a-Terre's owl cry which she was constantly practising. Francine colored, and smiled rather sadly at her mistress's gaiety. "But who is yours?" she said. Mademoiselle de Verneuil plucked out her dagger, and showed it to the frightened girl, who dropped on a chair and clasped her hands.
The tread of the soldiers and the rattle of their weapons awoke the echoes and seemed to put an end to Marche-a-Terre's indecision. "Perhaps I can save her," he said, "if you make her stay in the house. And mind," he added, "whatever happens, you must stay with her and keep silence; if not, no safety." "I promise it," she replied in terror.
Midnight was striking. The moon rose, giving the appearance of white smoke to the fog. Pille-Miche squeezed Marche-a-Terre's arm and silently showed him on the terrace just above them, the triangular iron of several shining bayonets. "The Blues are there already," said Pille-Miche; "we sha'n't gain anything by force."
Francine, who had clearly understood from Marche-a-Terre's glance that Mademoiselle de Verneuil's fate, over which she had commanded him to watch, was in other hands than his, looked pale and haggard, and could scarcely restrain her tears when her mistress spoke to her.
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