"The rule of our order forbids it," replied the Carmelite.
Mary dropped her head into her hands with a sigh. One of those hands still clasped the object Bertha had given her at the moment she was about to receive, for the last time, the blessed sacrament. Mère Sainte-Marthe was dead, and Mary was free to look at what she had given her.
It was, as she knew already from its shape, a locket. Mary opened it. It contained some hair and a paper. The hair was the color of Michel's hair; the paper contained these words: "Cut during his sleep on the night of June 5, 1832."
"O, my God!" murmured Mary, raising her eyes to the crucifix, "my God! in thy mercy receive her! for thy passion lasted but forty days, and hers has lasted eleven years!"
Putting the locket upon her heart, Mary went down the cold, damp stairway of the convent.
The carriage and those it contained were still waiting before the gate.
"Well?" asked Michel, opening the door and making a step toward his wife.
"Alas, it is all over!" replied Mary, throwing herself into his arms. "She died promising to pray for us above."
"Happy children!" said Jean Oullier, laying his hands, one on the head of the little boy, the other on that of the little girl. "Happy children! walk fearlessly through life, for a martyr watches over you in heaven!"