“I told you just now that Léon promised me fifty francs for our pilgrimage.”
“Well, he cannot give it,” said Claire, hastily.
“But consider! The money is already consecrated—”
“How!”
“Oh, in his own mind; and they have even told his Grandeur. If he withdraws the offer, will it not be sacrilege?”
“Whatever it may be,” her sister declared, “I am certain you will not see your fifty francs.”
“Oh, Claire, don’t say so! It is the most terrible position! A promise to the Church is as sacred as a vow—it must be kept, at whatever cost; and if Léon withdraws it, I shall never again have a moment’s peace! I am ready to make any sacrifices, but this is too unendurable!”
It was quite true that she was shaken by the mere possibility—far more shaken than she had been by the news the post had brought. She began her lament again, almost in tears: “It would be a sin.”
“If Léon has not the money, how can he give it?” demanded her sister, looking at her with pitying scorn. She accepted the fact that Félicie, being dévote, must be allowed to go certain lengths; but she thought her eagerness childish, and turned to her mother. “What else can we think of? It is so difficult to economise when already we have cut down our expenses to their very lowest.”
“Not quite to their lowest. We must counter-order my winter cloak and your dresses. Write to Tours at once, Claire.”