e-Aimee knew about
Colette. I did not see her till the afternoon, when we were out
walking. She did not look sad. She looked almost pleased. I had
never seen her look so pretty. Her whole face shone. While we were
out I noticed that she walked as though something was lifting her up.
I never remembered to have seen her walk like that. Her veil fluttered
a little at the shoulders, and her stomacher didn't hide all her neck.
She paid no attention to us. She was looking at nothing, but she
seemed to be seeing something. Every now and then she smiled as though
somebody were talking to her from inside.

In the evening after dinner I found her sitting on the old bench under
the big linden tree. M. le Cure was sitting next to her with his back
against the tree. They looked serious. I thought they were talking
about Colette, and I remained standing some distance from them. Sister
Marie-Aimee was saying, as though she were answering a question, "Yes,
when I was fifteen." M. le Cure said, "You had no vocation at
fifteen." I didn't hear what Sister Marie-Aimee answered, but M. le
Cure went on, "Or, rather, at fifteen you had every possible vocation.
A kind word, or a little indifference would be enough to change your
whole life." He said nothing for a moment, and then, in a lower tone,
he said, "Your parents were very much to blame." Sister Marie-Aimee
answered, "I regret nothing." They remained for a long time without
saying a word. Then Sister Marie-Aimee raised one finger as though she
were impressing something on him, and said, "Everywhere, in spite of
all and always." M. le Cure stretched his hand out a little way,
laughed, and repeated, "Everywhere, in spite of all and always."

The goodnight bell sounded all of a sudden, and M. le Cure went off,
down the avenue of linden trees. For a long time afterwards I used to
repeat the words I had heard them say, but I could never fit them in to
poor Colette's story.

Colette had given up all hopes of a miracle to take her away, and yet
she could not make up her mind to remain. When she saw all the girls
of her own age go one by one, she began to rebel. She would not go to
confession anymore, and she would not take holy communion. She used to
go to mass because she sang there, and she was fond of music. I often
stopped with her and consoled her. She explained to me that marriage
meant love.

Sister Marie-Aimee, who had not been well for some ti