"It is the will of God, Lucille, and he must know best."
Lucille muttered something which I did not quite hear.
"And besides, he does help us," I added, gathering courage. "Just think how all the martyrs have been helped to stand firm, and what joys they have felt even at the galleys and in dark dungeons, where they had hardly room to breathe."
"I know they say so," said Lucille; "but tell me, Vevette, have you experienced any of these wonderful joys. Because I know I never did."
I did not know exactly what to answer to this question. In fact, in those days my conscience was in that uneasy state in which it always must be with any half-hearted person. No, I could not say that my religion was any comfort to me, and I hastened to change the conversation.
"Anyhow, Lucille, I don't think you would be any happier if we were to change places. You would be lectured and ordered about, and sent out of the way a great deal more than you are now, and you would not have nearly as much time to yourself. I believe, after all, it is more in being contented than anything else. Look at Gran'mère Luchon. She has as little as any one I know—living down by the shore in that dark smoky little hut with her two little grandchildren, and supporting them and herself with her net-making and mending and her spinning. And yet she is happy. She is always singing over her work, and I never heard her make a complaint."
"She is not there any more," said Lucille. "The new curé ordered her to go to mass, and because she would not, he has taken the children away and handed them over to the nuns, and nobody knows what, has become of the old woman."
"The wretches!" I exclaimed.
"Hush!" said Lucille. "Don't speak so loud; nobody knows who may be listening. I hate living so—in such constraint and danger all the time. It is odious."
"Don't let us talk about it any more," said I. "I have some news for you. My cousin, Andrew Corbet, from England, is coming to visit us. Will it not seem odd to have a cousin?"