"You will laugh at me," answered she, sadly; "I want to speak, and I don't know how."
"Say on, Mont Saint Jean."
"Have you not the eyes of an angel!" said the prisoner, looking at Fleur-de-Marie in a kind of ecstasy; "your beautiful eyes encourage me. Come, I will try to say what I wish. There is the sun, is it not? It is very warm, it makes our prison gay, it is pleasant to see and feel, is it not?"
"Without doubt."
"Well, let us suppose—this sun did not make itself, and if one is grateful to it, so much the more reason—"
"To be grateful toward Him who created it, you mean, Mont Saint Jean!
You are right; hence, you should pray to Him, adore Him—it is God."
"That's it, there's my idea," cried the prisoner, joyfully; "that's it; I ought to be grateful to my companions, but I ought to pray to you, adore you, La Goualeuse, for it is you who have rendered them good to me, instead of being wicked as they were."
"But, if I am good, as you say, Mont Saint Jean, it is God who has made me so; it is, then, He whom you must thank."
"Ah! marry—perhaps so, then, since you say so," answered the prisoner; "if it pleases you to have it so, very well."'
"Yes, my poor Mont Saint Jean, pray to Him often. This will be the best way of proving to me that you love me a little."