to him what God alone could do. I was
happy--as happy as a creature who had suddenly and entirely escaped from
a great danger. You and Madame Georges were so kind to me, that I
thought I deserved pity rather than blame."

The cure looked at the Goualeuse with an air of surprise. She continued:

"Gradually I became used to my sweet course of life. I no longer felt
fear when I awoke, of finding myself at the ogress's. I seemed to sleep
in full security, and all my delight was to assist Madame Georges in her
work, and to apply myself to the lesson you gave me, my father, as well
as to profit by your advice and exhortation. Except some moments of
shame, when I reflected on the past, I thought myself equal to all the
world, because all the world was so kind to me. When, one day--"

Here sobs cut short poor Fleur-de-Marie's narration.

"Come, come, my poor child, calm yourself. Courage, courage!"

The Goualeuse wiped her eyes, and resumed:

"You recollect, father, during the fetes of the Toussaints, that Madame
Dubreuil, who superintends the Duke de Lucenay's farm at Arnouville,
came, with her daughter, to pass some time with us?"

"I do; and I was delighted to see you form an acquaintance with Clara
Dubreuil, who is a very excellent girl."

"She is an angel--an angel, father. When I knew that she was coming to
stay for some days at the farm, my delight was so great that I could
think of nothing else but the moment when she should arrive. At length
she came. I was in my room, which she was to share with me; and, whilst
I was putting it into nice order I was sent for. I went into the saloon,
my heart beating excessively, when Madame Georges, presenting me to the
pretty young lady, whose looks were so kind and good, said, 'Marie, here
is a friend for you.' 'I hope,' added Madame Dubreuil, 'that you and my
daughter will soon be like two sisters;' and hardly had her mother
uttered these words, than Mademoiselle Clara came and embraced me. Then,
father," continued Fleur-de-Marie, weeping, "I do not know what came
over me; but, when I felt the fresh and fair face of Clara pressed
against my cheek of shame, that cheek became scorching with
guilt--remorse. I remembered who and what I was;--I--I--to receive the
caresses of a good and virtuous girl!"

"Why, my child?"

"Ah, my father," cried Fleur-de-Marie, interrupting the cure with
painful emotion, "when M. Rodolph took me away from the Cite, I began
vaguely to be consciou