The handwriting was not that of the
curé of St. Marceau, nor any other that
Sister X. recognised; the characters seemed
rather to have been traced by a female
hand. At the top of the page was the
famous Jesuit formula, A.M.D.G., i.e., Ad
Majorem Dei Gloriam, and the superior
was addressed as "Madame and very dear
sister in J. C." It began by stating that
the matters about which information was
requested had not made so much noise as
had been supposed; that M. and Madame
Soubeyran had expected their daughter to
leave them, sooner or later. Still it had
put them a little out of temper, and M.
Soubeyran had vowed he would never give
his daughter a sou of dower. He had
obtained a three months' leave of absence,
and they were now making a trip to
Gascony, probably to divert their thoughts.
Those who saw them start said they were
cheerful. The writer gave it as his opinion,
that, in a few months' time, they would
forget their displeasure.

Well!" said Madame Blandine, when
Sister X. laid the unlucky letter on her
writing-table. "Well, my dear daughter,
you don't seem pleased. Come, tell me
what is the matter. Do you regret having
given yourself entirely to God? If
so, you have only to say a word. The
world is ready to open to you its perfidious
arms.

"That word, dear reverend mother, I
shall certainly not speak. My father and
mother think no more about me. They
are gone—travelling for amusement—without
a syllable of farewell, without the least
expression of regret."

"Alas! my poor child, such is the case
with all earthly affections—affections which
have not God for their basis and their only
object. Still, I am a little surprised at
the suddenness of your parents' resignation.
I attribute it to your fervent prayers and
the neuvaine, the nine days' devotion, we
have just completed."

Sister X. retired, unable to make any
reply, tormented by the most painful
reflections. What! had the father and
mother, who loved her so dearly, accepted
eternal separation without a word of
remonstrance! George, too, had forgotten
her, and had taken no steps to get her
back! That night the girl thought over
the strange conduct of the Abbé Desherbiers
and Mademoiselle Dufougeray, and
began to see things in their true light,
although it was now a little late.

In this perplexity, she naturally turned
to Father Gabriel, not being satisfied with
Madame Blandine' s insidious manners and
phraseology, whose affected physiognomy,
as her postulant now bethought her, was
one of those which promise no good. She
was about forty years of age, of middle
height, and vulgar bearing. Her pale and
puffy countenance was slightly marked with
the small-pox; the lower half was oval, the
upper part square, corresponding to the
shape of her head. Her eyebrows were
faintly marked by a few soft and sandy
hairs; the colour of her deep-set eyes was
indescribable, for, according to the light,
they changed from dark grey, through
lighter shades, to yellowish tints. Her nose
was flat, and nearly level with her cheeks;
her thin lips smiled caressingly, or threatened,
according to occasion. Certainly
she was not handsome, and made no
pretensions to being so; what she did
care about, was to manage and overbear
every one with whom she came in
contact. Very influential with her former
boarders, many of whom consulted her,
her advice was almost always scrupulously
followed.

Such was the person in whom Sister X.
had hitherto placed unbounded confidence.
The charm was broken now, and, without
her suspecting it, the prey was slipping
through her fingers to place her in the hands
of her adversary.

Sister X. patiently awaited the day of
confession to open her mind to Father
Gabriel. He happened to be out of temper,
and listened to her confession without
speaking. When it was finished, he said,
"Collect your thoughts; I will give you
absolution."

"Mon père," she said, "permit me to talk
to you a little longer. I want your advice.
I don't know what to do. I am uneasy,
irresolute, thoroughly wretched,"

"Ah!" he said. "Already?"

She could only answer by suppressed
sobs. At this the old man, usually so harsh
and blunt, immediately became kind and
affectionate in his manner.

"You weep, my dear child," he said.
"What has happened to you, within and
without? Open your heart to me. Fear
nothing. You may speak to me frankly, in
the certainty of meeting with equal frankness
on my part."

"Mon père, my parents have not once
written to me. They have set off on a long
journey without any thought of me, without
a word, even so much as a severe
reproach."