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.