All this and more Adèle read to her friend Gabrielle, and together they talked and laughed about the backwoods hero as young girls do who are fancy free and who take pleasure in idealizing a common man by making of him a hero in disguise, riding forth to do battle for the two-fold prize of glory and his lady's love. But, strange to say, Gabrielle did not tell her friend that Jean was other than a former schoolfellow and casual acquaintance; nor did she give the watchful Adèle the slightest cause to suspect that her "habitant," "mail-driver," and "inn-keeper" was more often in her thoughts than a certain brave officer of artillery, or a certain young teller in the Banque Nationale.
But the rumours that came to Gabrielle were disquieting, and interfered with her studies in art and literature more than she would have dared to confess, even to herself. She was happy in the convent, in the companionship of her fellow-pupils and under the direction of the sweet-faced sisters; she loved the Mother Superior and applied herself with devotion to her religious duties; but her thoughts often wandered to St. Placide, where one who had loved her long was proving by manly deeds his right to claim that she should love him in return.
She did not love him, no, not yet; but it was pleasant to think of that young man, her hero and knight, girding on his armour, taking a noble part in the battle of life, overcoming all obstacles, casting down all enemies, making a place in the world and an honourable name--and all for her. Poor Jean! He had been faithful for a long time and deserved some little encouragement, some slight reward. Gabrielle blushed as she thought of that, and wished that she had not been so cruel to Jean when last they met. It would be necessary to atone, but when and how?
Gabrielle was sure of Jean's devotion, and yet there were times when she thought him altogether too gay and debonair in the absence of his lady-love, too free with his smiles, too ready to greet the young women of the parish as he drove by, too confident altogether, considering the slight encouragement that he had received. It almost seemed as though he had never loved her with his whole heart, else why was he not more cast down and why so easily consoled? But to whom could he go for consolation? Surely not to Blanchette Laroche. That would be too absurd. Doubtless, it was in his work that Jean found consolation, because it brought him nearer to his heart's desire. But Blanchette was clever and capable, a perfect housekeeper, a charming companion--if one could forget her face. Yet there was a strange sweetness about that face. Yes, it might be well to return to St. Placide for the Christmas vacation, just to be at home again for a little while, to get a glimpse of the old friends, and to have a little change from the monotony of convent life.
It was a glorious winter morning, on the Sunday after Gabrielle's return; and although she might have driven to church in the family berline, she preferred to walk, and started early, that she might fully enjoy the beauty of the winter landscape, breathe the clear, cold mountain air, and feel the life blood tingling in all her veins. As she came near the cottage of Mère Tabeau she quickened her pace, thinking to escape notice, but the old crone, like a spider, was lying in wait, and came forth just as Gabrielle, with face averted, was passing by.
"Wait a minute, Gabrielle--Mademoiselle Taché," she called. "Can you not wait, my dear? I, too, am going to Mass, although you may think it strange. Yes, I go to Mass every Sunday, and to confession too, when necessary. There are often little sins, you know. But how fast you walk, Gabrielle--Mademoiselle! A little slower, if you please. I like the company of the young and beautiful. They do not like my company, perhaps, those proud ones, those rich ones with the fine moccasins and the expensive furs, because they forget, the gay creatures, that one day they too may be old and poor and lame. Yes, and they don't know that misfortune may come to them at any time, and very soon--yes, indeed."
"Mon Dieu, Madame Tabeau!" said Gabrielle, a little frightened, "I did not intend to walk so fast. It is the frosty air, Madame, that makes the feet move. But I shall be glad to walk more slowly, for the pleasure of your company."
"The pleasure of my company! Ha! Ha! Sacrée petite vierge! That was well said. A lie, of course, but pleasing to hear, for all that. You have learned manners, it would seem, at the convent. The Ursuline ladies are nothing if not polite. I knew one of them myself, long ago, who could stab you to the heart and smile sweetly all the time. And she lives still, the assassin! Ah, serpent! What a pleasure it would be to crush thee in the dust!"
"But, Madame----"
"Yes, my dear. Yes, Mademoiselle Gabrielle. I forgot that you were there. Strange words for the ears of innocence. Strange tales for a Sunday morning on the way to Mass. Yes, let us change the subject. Let us talk of something more interesting--of Jean Baptiste Giroux, for example."