“You then,” said Mademoiselle Feydeau, “are possibly acquainted with circumstances, that enable you to judge, whether he was criminal or not, and what was the crime imputed to him.”
“I am,” replied the nun; “but who shall dare to scrutinize my thoughts—who shall dare to pluck out my opinion? God only is his judge, and to that judge he is gone!”
Emily looked with surprise at sister Frances, who returned her a significant glance.
“I only requested your opinion,” said Mademoiselle Feydeau, mildly; “if the subject is displeasing to you, I will drop it.”
“Displeasing!”—said the nun, with emphasis.—“We are idle talkers; we do not weigh the meaning of the words we use; displeasing is a poor word. I will go pray.” As she said this she rose from her seat, and with a profound sigh quitted the room.
“What can be the meaning of this?” said Emily, when she was gone.
“It is nothing extraordinary,” replied sister Frances, “she is often thus; but she had no meaning in what she says. Her intellects are at times deranged. Did you never see her thus before?”
“Never,” said Emily. “I have, indeed, sometimes, thought, that there was the melancholy of madness in her look, but never before perceived it in her speech. Poor soul, I will pray for her!”
“Your prayers then, my daughter, will unite with ours,” observed the lady abbess, “she has need of them.”
“Dear lady,” said Mademoiselle Feydeau, addressing the abbess, “what is your opinion of the late Marquis? The strange circumstances, that have occurred at the château, have so much awakened my curiosity, that I shall be pardoned the question. What was his imputed crime, and what the punishment, to which sister Agnes alluded?”