She spoke her sympathy for this bereavement which had caused his absence, but he said with grave peace:
"She is well, my sister—a martyr in life, she has paid her debt. I have no grief."
So they talked about the garden, and of the fisher-folk, and their winter needs. There had been a wreck of a fishing boat, and a wife and children would be hungry but for the kindness of their Dame d'Héronac.
Then there was a pause—not one of those calm, happy pauses of other days, when each one dreamed, but a pause wrought with unease. The Curé's old black eyes had a questioning expression, and then he asked:
"And what is it, my daughter? Your heart is not at rest."
But Sabine could not answer him. Her long-controlled anguish won the day and, as once before, she burst into a passion of tears.
The Père Anselme did not seek to comfort her; he knew women well—she would be calmer presently, and would tell him what her sorrow was. He only murmured some words in Latin and looked out on the sea.
Presently the sobs ceased and the Dame d'Héronac rose quickly and left the room; and when she had mastered her emotion, she came back again.
"My father," she said, sitting on a low stool at his knees, "I have been very foolish and very wicked—but I cannot talk about it. Let us begin to read."