no walk that day. Even the
little girls kept quite quiet. I went to look for Sister Marie-Aimee.
She had not been at mass, and I knew from Marie Renaud that she was not
ill. I found her in the refectory. She was sitting on her little
platform. She was leaning her head sideways on the table, and her arms
were hanging down beside her chair. I sat myself down some distance
away from her. But when I heard her moaning I began to sob too, hiding
my face in my hands. But I did not sob long, and I knew that I was not
as sorry as I wanted to be. I tried to cry, but I could not shed a
single tear. I was a little bit ashamed of myself because I believed
that one ought to cry when somebody died, and I didn't dare uncover my
face for fear that Sister Marie-Aimee should think that I was hard
hearted. I listened to her crying. Her moaning reminded me of the
wind at winter-time in the big fireplace. It went up and down as if
she were trying to compose a kind of song. Then her voice stumbled and
broke, and ended up in deep trembling notes. A little before
dinner-time, Madeleine came into the refectory. She took Sister
Marie-Aimee away with her, putting her arm round her, and taking care
of her as they walked. In the evening she told us that M. le Cure had
died in Rome, and that he would be brought back to be buried with his
family.

Next day Sister Marie-Aimee looked after us as usual. She didn't cry
any more, but she would not let us talk to her. She walked along with
her eyes on the ground, and seemed to have forgotten me. I had only
one day more, as the Mother Superior had told me I should be fetched
next day, for the day after was the feast of St. John. In the evening,
at the end of prayers, when Sister Marie-Aimee had said, "Lord, be
pitiful to exiles and give your aid to prisoners," she added, in a loud
voice, "We will say a prayer for one of your companions who is going
out into the world." I understood at once that she was talking of me,
and I felt that I was as much to be pitied as the exiles and the
prisoners were. I could not get to sleep that night. I knew that I
was going next day, but I didn't know what Sologne was like. I
imagined it to be a country very far off, where there were large plains
with flowers on them. I imagined myself the shepherdess of a troop of
beautiful white sheep, with two dogs by my side which kept the sheep in
order at a sign from me. I would not have dared to tell Si