“You always go to the Via Gallio. But do you know by what nickname your Sœurs Mauves are known in Roman Society?”
“Nickname?” questioned Irene. “I did not know nuns could have nicknames.”
“They are called ‘Les Hetairas du bon Dieu,’” said Gzhatski, lowering his voice.
Irene was angry.
“Are you not ashamed of yourself?” she exclaimed indignantly. “You call yourself a gentleman, and you find it possible to insult these saintly women, who deserve the profoundest respect. I quite believe that the young people of the present day are capable of inventing this or any other obscenity. In their eyes, all women are low and worthless, and they cannot imagine or understand anything good or noble. But you—you! That you should repeat such things!”
“Well, well, I beg your pardon,” said the confused and apologetic Gzhatski. “I did not mean to offend you. I only wanted to tell you how painful to me is the thought that you, my countrywoman, will also be known by this shameful title.”
But the offended Irene would not listen to his apologies. Immediately after Gzhatski’s departure (a somewhat hasty departure on this occasion), she went off to the convent. She hurried along, with the feeling one has when one rushes to friends who have just suffered some trouble or misfortune. Although Irene had never seen the face of a single one of the sisters, nor had spoken to any of them, she had gradually, through these daily hours of common prayer, come to regard them as her personal friends. She was therefore anxious, on this occasion, to prove by her presence her resentment of the insult offered to them by idle, vulgar gossips.
Evensong was almost at an end when Irene entered the church. There were very few people, the choir was singing an exultant hymn, the nuns were frozen into a sort of beatific ecstasy. Irene gazed at them long and seriously, and suddenly realized that no insult could possibly reach them, that it was beyond the power of anyone to offend them. They were above all earthly troubles; nothing earthly had any value for them, all their hopes and dreams were concentrated in the next world. Thus, an emigrant, during his first days on board ship, thinks restlessly of the home he has left behind him, but when weeks have slipped away, his interest in the past grows fainter, and he thinks and dreams only of what he will find in the new land.
Père Etienne noticed Irene’s restlessness, but although he was well aware of her friendship with Gzhatski, never mentioned the Russian’s name. The clever, self-controlled priest neither opposed nor contradicted Gzhatski’s views on Roman Catholicism, views which made themselves clearly felt in all Irene’s words and arguments. He only more eloquently than ever advocated the convent. Under his influence, Irene saw before her a happy, peaceful old age, illuminated by constant sunshine, in the lap of luxurious Southern nature. And then came Gzhatski to destroy this dream; for, listening to his words, as eloquent as any of Père Etienne’s, she grew vaguely ashamed of having abandoned her home and her country, that dear Russia, of which Gzhatski spoke with such love and enthusiasm. He tried hard, indeed, to point out to Irene all the charm and goodness of the Russian people, and bitterly reproached her for having so light-mindedly hardened her heart and turned away from them.