'Because——. Listen to me, Ovide; don't be angry; you know that it pains me to see you angry. You told me to accompany our landlady here, didn't you? Well, I thought you wanted me to stop inquisitive people's curiosity. So I took my seat out here, and no one should have entered, be sure of that.'
But the priest caught hold of his mother's hands and shook her, exclaiming:
'Why, mother, you couldn't have supposed——'
'I suppose nothing,' she replied, with sublime indifference. 'You are free to do whatever pleases you. You are my child; I would steal for you, I would.'
The priest was no longer listening to her. He had let her hands drop, and, as he gazed at her, he seemed to be lost in reflections, which made his face look sterner and more austere than ever.
'No, never!' he exclaimed with lofty pride. 'You are greatly mistaken, mother. It is only the chaste who are powerful.'
[XVI]
At seventeen years of age, Désirée still retained the child-like laugh of an 'innocent.' She was now a fine, tall girl, plump and well-developed, with the arms and shoulders of a full-grown woman. She grew like a healthy plant, happy in her growth, and quite untouched by the unhappiness which was wrecking and saddening the house.
'Why do you never laugh?' she cried to her father one day. 'Come and have a game at skipping! It's such fun!'