"I know full well that your projects of a double marriage compel you to humor the brainless creature—but, one thing or the other: Bertha is either willing, or she is not willing, to lead the plan to a successful issue. Now, then, it is my opinion that she is not willing. Her determination is made."
"You are in error, Abbot," said the Count of Plouernel. "Bertha does not object to the marriage."
"But she demands time—to reflect! Not so, my dear Raoul? Well, then, all her delays have but one object in view: Bertha seeks to gain time in order to deliver herself without restraint to her follies, perhaps to—it is this that, above all, frightens me for the honor of your house—the bare thought frightens and terrifies me—"
"What is the cause of your fear? Come, explain yourself!"
"My dear Raoul, our poor Abbot thinks Bertha is in love."
"Good God!" broke in the Count, stupefied. "Do you think so, madam? Bertha in love! Impossible!"
"Everything leads to the belief that her love is an unworthy love, since Bertha surrounds it with profound mystery," the Abbot proceeded to explain. "Neither the Marchioness, nor yourself, nor I—I admit it—have until now been able to suspect, or even remotely guess who the object can be of this evidently monstrous passion. That such a passion does exist I make no doubt. All signs point in that direction."
"Thinking the matter over, and recalling certain circumstances that now rise vividly to my mind, I share the Abbot's opinion," added the Marchioness. "Bertha must have availed herself of the freedom that we allowed her to abandon herself to some disgraceful choice. One of these days she will flee with her lover, and the honor of our house will be tarnished forever! A scandal, dishonor, shame to our family!"
"The devil take it!" cried the Count of Plouernel. "If my sister should ever carry her disregard of all duty to the point of refusing a marriage that secures such great advantages to me, I swear to God! if the cause of her refusal be some disgraceful love, I shall immediately go and throw myself at the feet of the King, and request him to have the wretch locked up in the Prison of the Repentant Women where she will be treated with the utmost rigor."
"Mademoiselle Plouernel consigned to the Prison of the Repentant Women! Oh, my dear boy, you can not mean that!" said Abbot Boujaron with devout unction. "No; no; that is out of the question! But what is sensible and proper is that your sister take the veil, and that the share of the inheritance due her according to the custom of Brittany, be assigned to the community that may receive the great sinner, to aid it in exercising its charitable works. Besides, believe me, my dear boy," added the Abbot, smiling, "it is not necessary that our sinner be confined in the Prison of the Repentant Women in order to be treated with the uttermost rigor, and be severely chastised in the flesh and in her pride—for the salvation of her soul."