Poor Fleur-de-Marie cast down her eyes. "From the hour I went to live with the ogress," said she, in a low tone, while deep blushes dyed her cheek, "I never once entered a church,—I durst not. When in prison, on the contrary, I used to delight in helping to sing the mass; and, against the Fête-Dieu, oh, I made such lovely bouquets for the altar!"
"But God is merciful and good; why, then, fear to pray to him, or to enter his holy church?"
"Oh, no, no, M. Rodolph! I have offended God deeply enough; let me not add impiety and sacrilege to my sins."
After a moment's silence, Rodolph again renewed the conversation, and, kindly taking the hand of La Goualeuse, said, "Fleur-de-Marie, tell me honestly, have you ever known what it is to love?"
"Never, M. Rodolph."
"And how do you account for this?"
"You saw the kind of persons who frequented the tapis-franc. And then, to love, the object should be good and virtuous—"
"Why do you think so?"
"Oh, because one's lover, or husband, would be all in all to us, and we should seek no greater happiness than devoting our life to him. But, M. Rodolph, if you please, we will talk of something else, for the tears will come into my eyes."
"Willingly, Fleur-de-Marie; let us change the conversation. And now tell me, why do you look so beseechingly at me with those large, tearful eyes? Have I done anything to displease you?"