‘Surely yes, sir, I never saw them again. Maitre Tressan the elder prayed with us. And when the cruel soldiers came and demanded the lady and Maitre Isaac, and all obstinate Calvinists, our mayor and my father and the rest made answer that they had no knowledge of the lady, and did not know where Maitre Gardon was; and as to Huguenots, we were all one as obstinate as the other, but that we would pay any fine within our means so they would spare our lives. Then the man in the fine coat said, it was the lady they wanted, not the fine; and a great deal he said besides, I know not what but my father said, ‘It is our life’s blood that they want,’ and he put on his breastplate and kissed us all, and went away. Then came horrible noises and firing of cannon, and the neighbours ran in and said that the enemy were battering down the old crumbly bit of wall where the monastery was burnt; and just then our man Joseph ran back all pale, and staring, to tell us my father was lying badly hurt in the street. My mother hurried out, and locked the door to keep us from following.
The poor child broke down in tears, and her sister went on. ‘Oh, we were so frightened—such frightful sounds came close, and people ran by all blood and shrieking—and there was a glare in the sky—and nobody came home—till at last it grew so dreadful that we hid in the cellar to hear and see nothing. Only it grew hotter and hotter, and the light through the little grating was red. And at last there was a noise louder than thunder, and, oh, such a shaking—for it was the house falling down. But we did not know that; we tried to open the door, and could not; then we cried and called for father and mother—and no one heard—and we sat still for fear, till we slept—and then it was all dark, and we were very hungry. I don’t know how time went, but at last, when I was daylight again, there was a talking above, a little baby crying, and a kind voice too; and then we called out, ‘Oh, take us out and give us bread.’ Then a face looked down the grating. Oh, it was like the face of an angel to us, with all the white hair flying round. It was the holy priest of Nissard; and when one of the cruel men said we were only little heretics who ought to die like rats in a hole, he said we were but innocents who did not know the difference.
‘Ah! we did,’ said the elder girl. ‘You are younger, sister, you forget more;’ and then, holding out her hands to Berenger, she exclaimed, ‘Ah! sir, take us away with you.
‘My child!’ exclaimed the Prioress, ‘you told me you were happy to be in the good course.
‘Oh yes!’ cried the poor child; ‘but I don’t want to be happy! I am forgetting all my poor father and mother used to say. I can’t help it, and they would be so grieved. Oh, take me away, sir!
‘Take care, Agathe, you will be a relapsed heretic,’ said her sister, solemnly. ‘For me, I am a true Catholic. I love the beautiful images and the processions.
‘Ah! but what would our mother have said!’ cried poor Agathe, weeping more bitterly.
‘Poor child, her old recollections have been renewed,’ said the Prioress, with unchanged sweetness; ‘but it will pass. My dear, the gentleman will tell you that it is as impossible for him to take you as it is for me to let you go.
‘It is so, truly, little one,’ said Berenger. ‘The only little girl I cold have taken with me would have been my own;’ and as her eyes looked at him wistfully, he added, ‘No doubt, if your poor mother could, she would thank this good Mother-prioress for teaching you to serve God and be a good child.
‘Monsieur speaks well and kindly,’ said the Prioress; ‘and now, Agathe, make your curtsey, and take away the little ones.