Mlle. Fouchette recalled the stories of the intercession of Ste. Geneviève in behalf of virgin suppliants, and impetuously fell upon her knees outside the railing and bowed her face in her hands.
She knew absolutely nothing of theological truth and error; religion was to her only a vague scheme devised for other people—not for her. She had never in all her life uttered a prayer save on compulsion. Now, impulsively and without forethought, she was kneeling before the altar and acknowledging God and the intercession of the Christ.
It was the instinct of poor insignificant humanity—the weakest and the strongest, the worst and the best—to seek in the hour of suffering and despair some higher power upon which to unburden the load of life.
To say now that Mlle. Fouchette prayed would be too much. She did not know how,—and the few sentences she recalled from Le Bon Pasteur seemed the mere empty rattle of beads.
She simply wished. And as Mlle. Fouchette never did anything by halves, she wished devoutly, earnestly, passionately, and with the hot tears streaming from her eyes, without uttering a single word.
It would have been, from her point of view, quite impertinent for her to thrust her little affairs directly before the Throne. She was too timid even to appeal to the Holy Virgin, as she had often heard others do, with the familiarity of personal acquaintance; but she felt that she might approach Ste. Geneviève, patronne des vierges, with some confidence, if not a sense of right.
She silently and tearfully laid her heart bare to Ste. Geneviève, and with her whole passionate soul called upon her for support and assistance. If ever a young virgin needed help it was she, Fouchette, and if Ste. Geneviève had any influence at the higher court, now was the time to use it. First it was that Jean and Andrée might be happy and think of her kindly now and then; next, that she might be forgiven for everything up to date and be permitted to be good,—that some way might be opened to her, and that she might be kept in that way.
Otherwise she must surely die.
If Sister Agnes might only be restored to her, it would be enough. It was all she would ask,—the rest would follow. She must have Sister Agnes,—good Sister Agnes, who loved her and would protect her and lead her safely to the better life. Oh! only send her Sister Agnes——
"My child, you are in trouble?"