he whole afternoon she was left to her reflections. But instead
of calling her "madame" as they had done hitherto, her companions
addressed her simply as "mademoiselle," without exactly knowing why, but
as if desirous of making her descend a step in the esteem she had won,
and forcing her to realize her degraded position.

Just as soup was served, Monsieur Follenvie reappeared, repeating his
phrase of the evening before:

"The Prussian officer sends to ask if Mademoiselle Elisabeth Rousset has
changed her mind."

Boule de Suif answered briefly:

"No, monsieur."

But at dinner the coalition weakened. Loiseau made three unfortunate
remarks. Each was cudgeling his brains for further examples of
self-sacrifice, and could find none, when the countess, possibly without
ulterior motive, and moved simply by a vague desire to do homage to
religion, began to question the elder of the two nuns on the most
striking facts in the lives of the saints. Now, it fell out that many of
these had committed acts which would be crimes in our eyes, but the
Church readily pardons such deeds when they are accomplished for the
glory of God or the good of mankind. This was a powerful argument, and
the countess made the most of it. Then, whether by reason of a tacit
understanding, a thinly veiled act of complaisance such as those who wear
the ecclesiastical habit excel in, or whether merely as the result of
sheer stupidity--a stupidity admirably adapted to further their
designs--the old nun rendered formidable aid to the conspirator.
They had thought her timid; she proved herself bold, talkative, bigoted.
She was not troubled by the ins and outs of casuistry; her doctrines were
as iron bars; her faith knew no doubt; her conscience no scruples. She
looked on Abraham's sacrifice as natural enough, for she herself would
not have hesitated to kill both father and mother if she had received a
divine order to that effect; and nothing, in her opinion, could displease
our Lord, provided the motive were praiseworthy. The countess, putting to
good use the consecrated authority of her unexpected ally, led her on to
make a lengthy and edifying paraphrase of that axiom enunciated by a
certain school of moralists: "The end justifies the means."

"Then, sister," she asked, "you think God accepts all methods, and
pardons the act when the motive is pure?"

"Undoubtedly, madame. An action reprehensible in itself often derives
merit from the thought which ins