nd you the secret of my good
spirits? Look at the yellowing tufts of those distant tree-tops; not one
is like another. As we look at them from this distance don't they
seem like an old bit of tapestry? See the hedges from behind which the
Chouans may spring upon us at any moment. When I look at that gorse I
fancy I can see the muzzles of their guns. Every time the road is shady
under the trees I fancy I shall hear firing, and then my heart beats and
a new sensation comes over me. It is neither the shuddering of fear nor
an emotion of pleasure; no, it is better than either, it is the stirring
of everything within me--it is life! Why shouldn't I be gay when a
little excitement is dropped into my monotonous existence?"

"Ah! you are telling me nothing, cruel girl! Holy Virgin!" added
Francine, raising her eyes in distress to heaven; "to whom will she
confess herself if she denies the truth to me?"

"Francine," said the lady, in a grave tone, "I can't explain to you my
present enterprise; it is horrible."

"Why do wrong when you know it to be wrong?"

"How can I help it? I catch myself thinking as if I were fifty, and
acting as if I were still fifteen. You have always been my better self,
my poor Francine, but in this affair I must stifle conscience. And," she
added after a pause, "I cannot. Therefore, how can you expect me to take
a confessor as stern as you?" and she patted the girl's hand.

"When did I ever blame your actions?" cried Francine. "Evil is so mixed
with good in your nature. Yes, Saint Anne of Auray, to whom I pray to
save you, will absolve you for all you do. And, Marie, am I not here
beside you, without so much as knowing where you go?" and she kissed her
hands with effusion.

"But," replied Marie, "you may yet desert me, if your conscience--"

"Hush, hush, mademoiselle," cried Francine, with a hurt expression. "But
surely you will tell me--"

"Nothing!" said the young lady, in a resolute voice. "Only--and I wish
you to know it--I hate this enterprise even more than I hate him whose
gilded tongue induced me to undertake it. I will be rank and own to you
that I would never have yielded to their wishes if I had not foreseen,
in this ignoble farce, a mingling of love and danger which tempted me.
I cannot bear to leave this empty world without at least attempting to
gather the flowers that it owes me,--whether I perish in the attempt or
not. But remember, for the honor of my memory, that had I ever been