“Nay, but,” said the abbess, smiling, “I will have nothing said which shall make Euphrosyne look upon my guest as a sorceress, or as the instrument of any evil one. I wish all my daughters to meet Madame Ogé with cheerfulness. It is the best I have to offer her,—the cheerfulness of my family; and that of which she has least at home. You hear, Euphrosyne?”
“Madam, you do not mean that I am to see her. Indeed I cannot,—indeed I dare not. It is no disrespect—quite the contrary. But I could not hold up my head before one who—”
“Poor Madame Ogé, if all said so!” exclaimed the abbess.
“That is true,” said Euphrosyne. “I will be there: but, dear mother, do not speak particularly to me. Do not draw her attention upon me.”
“I will not, my dear.”
“Do you think she will speak angrily of the Ouvertures? I hope she will say nothing about poor General Moyse.”
“You must hear what she says, be it what it may.”
“True. And it is only for one evening. But I wish it was over. I shall be glad when to-morrow morning is come, and I shall be in this alley again.”
“Meantime, my dear, you have been long enough here for this morning. Let us go in.”
The prospect of any guest was in itself acceptable to the sisterhood. It gave them something to do, and afforded one day of variety. The abbess’s parlour and the refectory had to be adorned with fresh flowers. Napkins, of the workmanship of one sister, were laid beside the plates; and on the table were fruits gathered by another, sweetmeats made by a third, and chocolate prepared by the careful hands of a fourth. Even the abbess’s veil looked whiter, and more exactly put on than usual. Everything within the walls was in its nicest order some time before Madame Ogé’s carriage drew up before the gate.