Thérèse cried out, gratefully, that she should never repent it. Her buoyant spirit reasserted itself; she drew a long breath of relief as she thought of Monsieur Deshoulières and the convent on one side, Fabien and happiness on the other, with Madame Roulleau, in her linen jacket, standing as arbitrix between them. If there had been a dozen Octavies and Adolphes she must have embraced her, as she did. Such joy did not mollify madame.
“Who is to promenade with you?” she asked, crossly. “It must not be a fine lady, to ruin us in wages.”
“I have thought of some one,” Thérèse cried out with eagerness. “Let it be old Nannon; she is very poor, and will be glad to get a little.”
“That old creature!” exclaimed madame, who was secretly pleased, but felt it necessary to make a favour of every concession.
Perhaps Thérèse also was actuated by the spirit of contradiction towards the unconscious offender, M. Deshoulières. “I should like her better than any one else,” she said.
Madame went away well satisfied with her own tactics. By a little skilful management she could make these two play against each other. Thérèse was already thoroughly prejudiced against her guardian, and should he be displeased by the choice of Nannon, he would learn that it arose from the girl’s own wilfulness. It was far more likely that, having once spoken on the subject, he would not trouble himself about it again. Madame Roulleau was a clever woman, but she knew nothing of those new sounds which were beginning to make themselves heard in his heart.
Before she left the room she told Thérèse to go to old Nannon’s, and desire her to come to Rue St. Servan. M. Deshoulières was gone to Epernon, and safe out of the way. Thérèse, who all the morning had been looking longingly at the soft sunshine and the cool delicate clouds which sailed lazily across her great expanse of sky, was glad to get out into the brightness. It was one of those exquisite days of broken light in which quaint old Charville seemed full of pictures and of memories; a capricious sky, a sweet tender glow upon the stones, here and there a keen shaft of sun-ray, here and there a deep grave shadow—contrasts, but not contradictions. Later in the day there was to be a mass in the Cathedral for the children who were just confirmed; the little white-veiled figures were flitting about in all directions. Thérèse stood and watched two who came along a narrow, dark street, and under a grey archway; two black-robed sisters in great white flapping caps, stretching out on either side like wings, held their hands. “Soyez tranquille, mon enfant,” one of them was saying, in her calm, hushed voice, as they passed Thérèse; it sounded almost like a benediction, as they all went quietly along under the Cathedral and the praying statues. Tears rushed into the girl’s eyes; she put out her hands with a sort of vague beseeching for some such kindly words, but no one saw or understood the gesture. The figures went away into the light, Thérèse remained sadly on the broad steps looking after them. With these solemn walls rising heavenwards; with these serene, mute statues—angels and their harps, saints with folded hands, crowned kings and queens, prophets, apostles, martyrs—standing in majestic unbroken calm, it seemed as if, after all, peace might be the happiness of life. Was it to be found in such an existence as these quiet women had chosen? Would it not be better for her to yield and do as they had done? She shivered at the thought. A little white butterfly fluttered down on the hand of one of the crowned figures, and rose again, as if the touch chilled it. “It is like me,” Thérèse thought bitterly; “I am not good enough for that cold, saintly life.” Poor child! There were all kinds of new thoughts wrestling within her; perhaps, among them, breathed the faint distant echo of an eternal truth. Neither in the cloister nor in the world will peace or happiness, or whatever we may call the highest earthly bliss, come to those who seek them selfishly. From behind some sad figure, in companionship where we least expect them, they may step forth smiling. But they are divine gifts; and He who gives has not made them the end of our endeavour, the goal of our race.
The girl dashed away her tears, and came slowly down from the steps; she would have gone into the Cathedral, but the doors of the north portal were not open, and she went mechanically along the streets towards Nannon’s. The air was soft and healing, every thing gentle, dewy, and full of sweet beauty. Rain had fallen in the night, the broad fans of the horse-chestnut leaves still sheltered little depths out of which gleamed patches of wet, and diamond beads glistened on the grass, which feathered out here and there from a crevice in some old cracked wall. Presently Thérèse, who was not much thinking about her errand, caught the sound of a voice which recalled it. There was an old arched stone doorway lying in grey shade. Worn steps led up to it, and through the open space you could see a little sunny court, a stone fountain catching warm yellow tints, vines clambering round the edge, an old woman in a blue stuff gown and white cap leaning against it and chattering merrily. There must have been other invisible figures to whom Nannon was holding forth, for every now and then there came a little chorus of shrill laughter. The vine-leaves rustled, their shadows danced in the sunlight; Thérèse stood at the doorway and looked at it all for a moment before she called,—
“Nannon!”
“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed the old woman, starting, “it is Mademoiselle Veuillot!”