acie had shrunk
from her, and wrapped herself up in the ceaseless round of masses and
prayers, in which she was allowed to perceive a glimmering of hope for
her husband's soul. The Abbess, ever busy with affairs of her convent or
matters of pleasure, soon relinquished the vain attempt to console where
she could not sympathize, trusted that the fever of devotion would wear
itself out, and left her niece to herself. Of the seven nuns, two were
decorously gay, like their Mother Abbess; one was a prodigious worker
of tapestry, two were unrivalled save by one another as confectioners.
Eustacie had been their pet in her younger days; now she was out of
their reach, they tried in turn to comfort her; and when she would not
be comforted, they, too, felt aggrieved by the presence of one whose
austerity reproached their own laxity; they resented her disappointment
at Soeur Monique's having been transferred to Lucon, and they, too,
left her to the only persons whose presence she had ever seemed to
relish,--namely, her maid Veronique, and Veronique's mother, her old
nurse Perrine, wife of a farmer about two miles off. The woman had been
Eustacie's foster-mother, and continued to exert over her much of the
caressing care of a nurse.

After parting with her aunt, Eustacie for a moment looked towards the
chapel, then, clasping her hands, murmured to herself, 'No! no! speed is
my best hope;' and at once mounted the stairs, and entered a room, where
the large stone crucifix, a waxen Madonna, and the holy water font
gave a cell-like aspect to the room; and a straw pallet covered with
sackcloth was on the floor, a richly curtained couch driven into the
rear, as unused.

She knelt for a moment before the Madonna; 'Ave Maria, be with me and
mine. Oh! blessed Lady, thou hadst to fly with thy Holy One from cruel
men. Have thou pity on the fatherless!'

Then going to the door, she clapped her hands; and, as Veronique
entered, she bade her shut and bolt the door, and at the same moment
began in nervous haste to throw off her veil and unfasten her dress.

'Make haste, Veronique. A dress of thine---'

'All is known, then!' cried Veronique, throwing up her arms.

'No, but he is coming--Narcisse--to marry me at once--_Marde-Gras_---'

'_Et quoi_? Madame has but to speak the word, and it is impossible.'

'And after what my aunt has said, I would die a thousand deaths ere
speaking that word. I asked her, Veronique! She would have vengeance
o