I told her that Flora’s brother had been taken prisoner.
“Ah, this horrible war!” cried she. “Can the grands Seigneurs not leave alone the wars? or else fight out their quarrels their own selves?”
“Oh, the Prince will soon be here,” said I, “and then it will all be over.”
“All be over? Ah, sapristi! Mademoiselle does not know. The Prince means the priests: and the priests mean—Bon! have I not heard my grandmother tell?”
“Tell what, Lucette? I thought you were a Papist, like all Frenchwomen.”
“A Catholic—I? Why then came my grandfather to this country, and my father, and all? Does Mademoiselle suppose they loved better Spitalfields than Blois? Should they then leave a country where the sun is glorious and the vines ravissantes, for this black cold place where the sun shine once a year? Vraiment! Serait-il possible?”
I laughed. “The sun shines oftener in Cumberland, Lucette. I won’t defend Spitalfields. But I want to know what your grandmother told you about the priests.”
“The priests have two sides, Mademoiselle. On the one is the confessional: you must go—you shall not choose. You kneel; you speak out all—every thought in your heart, every secret of your dearest friend. You may not hide one little thought. The priest hears you hesitate? The questions come:—Mademoiselle, terrible questions, questions I could not ask, nor you understand. You learn to understand them. They burn up your heart, they drag down to Hell your soul. That is one side.”
“Would they see me there twice!” said I.
“Then, if not so, there is the other side. The chains, the torture-irons, the fire. You can choose, so: you tell, or you die. There is no more choice. Does Mademoiselle wonder that we came?”