--sinful, perhaps, to put myself in its
way, but surely Heaven will pardon that sin,--weak, yes; but, alas, I
cannot help it,--women are weak, are they not? What is before me, then?
I am one without a place in the world--without relations, without
fortune. If I were a man, I might seek my fortune--there are the wars,
there are many kinds of honourable service. But what is there for a
woman, a wife who has run away from her husband?"

"But Madame, the convent,--you have a right to be maintained there. You
can at least live there, till time annuls the Count's claims upon you.
And then who knows what the future may bring?"

"The convent--I have told you I should be safe there, and so no doubt I
should if I took the veil--"

"Nay, Madame, not that, save as a last resort!"

"Alas, I may not though I would. Do you think I should hesitate if I
were free? How gladly I would bury myself from this world, give myself
at once to Heaven! But that resource--that happiness--is forbidden me.
My mother, as she neared death, saw no security for me but as a
life-guest at a convent. Our small fortune barely sufficed to make the
provision. But she did not wish me to become a nun, and as she feared
the influence of the convent might lead that way, she put me under a
promise never to take the veil. So I am without the one natural resource
of a woman in my position."

"But do you mean that you will not be safe at the convent merely as a
guest?"

"The Count may claim the fulfilment of his rights as a husband. He may
use force to take me away. The Mother Superior cannot withhold me from
him; and indeed I fear she would be little inclined to if she could,
unless I consented to take the veil. Before the possibility of my
marriage came up, she was always urging me to apply for a remission of
the vow to my mother, so that I might become a nun. But that I would
never do."

"But, Madame, knowing all this, how could you select the convent as your
refuge, and let me bring you so far toward it?"

"Ah, Monsieur, what place in the world was there for me? And yet I had
to go somewhere, that your life might be saved, and Mathilde's, and the
happiness of poor Hugues. There was no other way to draw you far from
that chateau of murder, no other way to detach Mathilde from one who
could bring her nothing but calamity. And to-day, when I left you, I
thought all this was accomplished, and I was free to go my way in search
of death."

"Oh, Madame, if I