Therese was thinking of labouring in the fields, of the ripple of Jean-Pierre's muscles. He had shown her his arms and said: "See how strong I am, little Therese! I could lift you up. I could carry you off. . . and you'd not be able to stop me." She had been thirteen then. Life could be dangerous at thirteen.
The Mother had come to a decision. "It must be explained to him," she said. "To-morrow ycu, Sister Therese and you, Sister Eugenie, shall go to the inn and ask to speak to him. You must
speak to him with the utmost frankness. Ask him if he has any special interest in the child. If he is the man, he will know what we mean. Tell him that it is unwise of him to come here. The child is quickwitted. If he shows interest in her she may guess something near the truth. He must be asked not to come here, disturbing her, unless he has some proposition to lay before us."
The Sisters bowed their heads.
"It is to be hoped he has not," continued the Mother. "The child needs security, a life of serenity. I had hoped she might become one of us."
Sister Eugenie looked dubious and Th6rese shook her head.
"No, I fear not," went on the Mother. "But she must be guarded well until she is older. To put ideas into a head such as that one, might be to put sin there too."
"You are as usual right, ma Mere" said TheYese.
"So . . . see that she does not go out whilst he is here; and, to-morrow, go to him and say what I have told you. It is the best way."
The Sisters went out, leaving the Mother to hear again the shouts of the revolutionaries with the strains of the Marseillaise coming back to her over the years.
The clock ticked on. The seams were long. Melisande divided them up in her thoughts so that the material was the town and the needle herself walking through it. Here was the church, here the boat yard, here the baker's shop, the cottages, the inn, the river and the ruins of the chateau. She pictured the baker at the door as she passed. "A gateau for the little one?" It was delicious. She could taste the spices which the baker knew so well how to mingle in his delightful confections. Sister Therese and Sister Eugenie had not noticed. The baker winked. "We will deceive them," said that wink. "You shall have cakes because you are the prettiest* the most charming of the children, and it pleases me to give."
She could laugh to herself; she was far away from the sewing room. She went on past the cottages to the auberge, where he sat, smiling at her, without waiting for her to drop her sabot. He said: "You speak English so beautifully. I should have thought you were English. You shall leave the convent and come away with me." Melisande was remembering that last year a woman had come to
the Convent and taken Anne-Marie away; the children had watched her leave in a beautiful carriage. "That is her aunt," said the children. "She is going to live with her rich aunt and have a satin dress trimmed with fur." Ever since, Melisande had waited for a rich woman to come and take her away, but a man would do very well instead.
The door opened and Sister Eugenie came in. She went to the table and whispered a few words to Sister Emilie. Then Sister Emilie went out and left Melisande with Sister Eugenie.
Sister Eugenie looked at the shirt which Melisande had been stitching. She pointed with a thin finger to the stitches which were too long and too crooked.
"Take this book and read it aloud," she said. "Give me the shirt. I will finish it whilst you read."
Melisande took the book. It was the Pilgrim's Progress in English. She read slowly, enjoying the story of the man with his burden; but she would rather have heard the story of Melisande, of how she came to the Convent when she was a baby, and how a rich woman —or a man—came one day to take her away to a beautiful house where she spent the rest of her life eating sweetmeats and wearing a blue dress trimmed with fur.
Madame Lefevre saw the two Sisters coming towards the auberge. She paused to look through the window. Armand, sitting at the table, rose to greet the Sisters. Madame heard his loud Bonjour and the quiet ones of the Sisters. Armand was flattering and gallant as he was to all women. "I am happy to see you here. Our little inn is at your service."
Madame did not wait for their reply; she went downstairs to see them for herself. She greeted them with warmth as Armand had done.
"They come to see the English gentleman," said Armand.
"Alas!" said Madame.
"I have told the Sisters that he left this morning."
Madame nodded. It was sad indeed; she was filled with melancholy at the thought. "He decided last night," she explained. "He came to me and he said: 'Madame, I must depart to-morrow.' He went off early in the coach."
The Sisters nodded. They were secretly pleased; that much was clear. They thanked the Lefevres and went slowly away.
Armand lifted his shoulders; he was afraid to meet Madame's eyes, for he feared he was responsible for the Englishman's departure. He would not tell Madame of their little conversation.
But he would be back, Armand soothed himself. He would sit here and watch the children, and his eyes would linger on the little Melisande. She was English; he was English; that was good enough for Armand.
Madame stood for a while conjecturing why the nuns had called; then she turned and went into the inn, for she had her business to attend to.
Armand returned to his seat and his wine. One of the stall-keepers on his way to the market came by with a basket of produce to sell in the square; he called Hold, to Armand and sat down for a while to drink a glass of wine.
The Convent bell began to ring. It would soon be midday. He heard the children's sabots on the cobbles. Sister Therese came in sight with the crocodile. Therese peered about, calling a greeting. "Bonjour, Madame." "Bonjour, Monsieur." "Bonjour, mes enfants"
The children wound their way along by the river, their feet noisy in protest because the day was hot, and perhaps some of them remembered that yesterday the little Melisande had taken off her sabots and walked barefoot.
And there she was, eagerly looking towards the auberge. Looking for the bird who had flown, thought Armand. Ah, he has gone, my little one. You and I have driven him away.
The children passed on. Armand talked with his companion of the affairs of the town.
Life flowed on, as it had yesterday.
TWO
A,
.s the coach trundled along to Paris, the Englishman was thinking the same uneasy thoughts which always disturbed him when he made this journey. Each time he made it, he assured himself it would be the last. Yet again and again he came. He was drawn there by the quaint figure of a girl in ill-fitting black clothes with marvellous green eyes which brought him memories.
What use was there in making these journeys ? None. What did he get from them but the anguish of memories, the reminder of an episode which was best forgotten and which he could have shelved
with an easy conscience? He was rich, and wise enough to know that the most reliable salve for an uneasy conscience which the world could provide was money. He need never have concerned himself with Melisande again. He should have resisted the impulse to see her in the first place. If he had, there would have been none of these pointless journeys. And he had betrayed himself. That was disquieting. An inquisitive old innkeeper, on whom he had looked as a useful source of information, had probed his secret; and it was not what a man did that could bring trouble; it was what others discovered of his doings which chilled the stomach.