"My dear child, my friend is a warm-hearted, excellent woman, but rather weak; still I know her too well not to feel certain that by to-morrow she will regret her foolish violence of to-day."
"Alas! madame, think not that I wish to take her part in preference to yours. No, God forbid! but pardon me if I say that I fear your great kindness towards me has induced you to shut your eyes to—Put yourself in the place of Madame Dubreuil—to be told that the companion of your darling daughter was—what I was—Ah, could any one blame such natural indignation?"
Unfortunately Madame Georges could not find any satisfactory reply to this question of Fleur-de-Marie's, who continued with much excitement:
"Soon will the degrading scene of yesterday be in everybody's mouth! I fear not for myself, but who can tell how far it may affect the reputation of Mlle. Clara? Who can answer for it that I may not have tarnished her fair fame for ever? for did she not, in the face of the assembled crowd, persist in calling me her friend—her sister? I ought to have obeyed my first impulse, and resisted the affection which attracted me towards Mlle. Dubreuil, and, at the risk of incurring her dislike, have refused the friendship she offered me. But I forgot the distance which separated me from her, and now, as you perceive, I am suffering the just penalty; I am punished—oh, how cruelly punished! for I have perhaps done an irreparable injury to one so virtuous and so good."
"My child," said Madame Georges, after a brief silence, "you are wrong to accuse yourself so cruelly. 'Tis true your past life has been guilty—very highly so; but are we to reckon as nothing your having, by the sincerity of your repentance, obtained the protection and favour of our excellent curé? and was it not under his auspices and mine you were introduced to Madame Dubreuil? and did not your own amiable qualities inspire her with the attachment she so voluntarily professed for you? was it not she herself who requested you to call Clara your sister? and, finally, as I told her just now, for I neither wished nor ought to conceal the whole truth from her, how could I, certain as I felt of your sincere repentance—how could I, by divulging the past, render your attempts to reinstate yourself more painful and difficult, perhaps impossible, by throwing you, in despair of being again received by the good and virtuous, back upon the scorn and derision of those who, equally guilty, equally unfortunate as you have been, would not perhaps like you have preserved the secret instinct of honour and virtue? The disclosure made by the woman to-day is alike to be lamented and feared; but could I, in anticipation of an almost impossible casualty, sacrifice your present comfort and future repose?"
"Ah, madame, a convincing proof of the false and miserable position I must ever hold may be found in the fact of your being obliged to conceal the past; and that the mother of Clara despises me for that past; views me in the same contemptuous light all will henceforward behold me, for the scene at the farm of Arnouville will be quickly spread abroad,—every one will hear of it! Oh, I shall die with shame! never again can I meet the looks of any human being!"
"Not even mine, my child?" said Madame Georges, bursting into tears, and opening her arms to Fleur-de-Marie, "you will never find in my heart any other feeling than the devoted tenderness of a mother. Courage, then, dear Marie! console yourself with the knowledge of your hearty and sincere repentance; you are here surrounded with true and affectionate friends, let this home be your world. We will anticipate the exposure you dread so much; our worthy abbé shall assemble the people about the farm, who all regard you with love and respect, and he shall tell them the sad history of your past life; and, trust me, my child, told as the tale would be by him, whose word is law here, such a disclosure will but serve to increase the interest all take in your welfare."
"I would fain think so, dear madame, and I submit myself. Yesterday, when we were conversing together, M. le Curé predicted to me that I should be called upon painfully to expiate my past offences; I ought not, therefore, to be astonished at their commencement. He told me also that my earthly trials would be accepted as some atonement for the great wrong I have done; I would fain hope so. Supported through these painful ordeals by you and my venerable pastor, I will not—I ought not to complain."
"You will go to his presence ere long, and never will his counsels have been more valuable to you. It is already half-past four; prepare yourself for your visit to the rectory, my child. I shall employ myself in writing to M. Rodolph an account of what occurred at the farm at Arnouville, and send my letter off by express; I will then join you at our venerable abbé's, for it is most important we should talk over matters together."
Shortly after the Goualeuse quitted the farm in order to repair to the rectory by the hollow road, where the old woman, the Schoolmaster, and Tortillard had agreed to meet.