e bench, Mont Saint-Jean lifted both her
hands to the sides of her matted and coarse hair, which projected in
disorder from the sides of her old black cap, as if to tear them out;
then this deep affliction gave way to dejection, and she drooped her
head and remained mute and motionless, with her face hidden in her
hands, and her elbows resting on her knees.

In spite of her joy at leaving the prison, Fleur-de-Marie could not help
shuddering when she thought for an instant of the Chouette and the
Schoolmaster, recollecting that these two monsters had made her swear
never to inform her benefactors of her wretched fate. But these
dispiriting thoughts were soon effaced from Fleur-de-Marie's mind before
the hope of seeing Bouqueval once more, with Madame Georges and Rodolph,
to whom she meant to intercede for La Louve and Martial. It even seemed
to her that the warm feeling which she reproached herself for having of
her benefactor, being no longer nourished by sadness and solitude, would
be calmed down as soon as she resumed her rustic occupations, which she
so much delighted in sharing with the good and simple inhabitants of the
farm.

Astonished at the silence of her companion, a silence whose source she
did not suspect, La Goualeuse touched her gently on the shoulder, saying
to her:

"Mont Saint-Jean, as I am now free, can I be in any way useful to you?"

The prisoner trembled as she felt La Goualeuse's hand upon her, let her
hands drop on her knees, and turned towards the young girl, her face
streaming with tears. So bitter a grief overspread the features of Mont
Saint-Jean that their ugliness had disappeared.

"What is the matter?" said La Goualeuse. "You are weeping!"

"You are going away!" murmured the poor prisoner, with a voice broken by
sobs. "And I had never thought that you would go away, and that I should
never see you more,--never, no, never!"

"I assure you that I shall always think of your good feeling towards me,
Mont Saint-Jean."

"Oh, and to think how I loved you, when I was sitting there at your feet
on the ground! It seemed as if I was saved,--that I had nothing more to
fear! It was not for the blows which the other women may, perhaps, begin
again to give me that I said that I have led a hard life; but it seemed
to me that you were my good fortune, and would bring good luck to my
child, just because you had pity on me. But, then, when one is used to
be ill-treated, one is then more sensible than