"An ingrate! How?"
"That you may understand me, I must begin and tell you of my first day at the farm."
"Then let us talk as we walk on."
"You will be indulgent to me, my father? What I shall say may perhaps be wrong."
"The Lord has shown his mercy unto you. Be of good heart."
"When," said Fleur-de-Marie, after a moment's reflection, "I knew that, on arriving here, I should not again leave the farm and Madame Georges, I believed it was all a dream. At first I felt giddy with my happiness, and thought every moment of M. Rodolph. Very often when I was alone, and in spite of myself, I raised my eyes to heaven, as if to seek him there and thank him. Afterwards—and I was wrong, father—I thought more of him than God, attributing to him what God alone could do. I was happy—as happy as a creature who had suddenly and entirely escaped from a great danger. You and Madame Georges were so kind to me, that I thought I deserved pity rather than blame."
The curé looked at the Goualeuse with an air of surprise. She continued:
"Gradually I became used to my sweet course of life. I no longer felt fear when I awoke, of finding myself at the ogress's. I seemed to sleep in full security, and all my delight was to assist Madame Georges in her work, and to apply myself to the lesson you gave me, my father, as well as to profit by your advice and exhortation. Except some moments of shame, when I reflected on the past, I thought myself equal to all the world, because all the world was so kind to me. When, one day—"
Here sobs cut short poor Fleur-de-Marie's narration.
"Come, come, my poor child, calm yourself. Courage, courage!"