any rate; and if Monsieur Rodolphe does not send—'
"'Chut!' said her son, 'we can talk it over by and by."
"They then descended the stairs, and resumed their places by the fire with Julie; who again invited them to take a share of her bottle of wine. She felt a great desire to ask Rodolphe if he had heard any thing about the murder, and was besides particularly anxious to learn whether Mr. Brunean was dead, or likely to recover; but her dread of exciting suspicion or resentment, by introducing a subject in which she was assured they were somehow or other more than commonly interested, made her voice falter and her heart beat so much whenever she approached it, that she was constrained to renounce her intention; so she sat slowly sipping her wine, and picking the crumbs of bread off the table cloth, conscious that her hosts desired her absence, but feeling every instant an increasing dislike, bordering upon horror, to the idea of retiring to bed under a roof, and amongst strangers, over whom there hung a mystery she could not penetrate. But the conversation flagged—the old woman nodded in her chair, and Rodolphe yawned audibly. 'Ah, mon Dieu!' exclaimed the former,
