The Chevalier's daughter

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

It was even so. Lucille had come home and done her share of work, as usual. She had sat up rather late, making and doing up a new cap for her mother. In the morning she did not appear, and Jeanne supposed she had overslept, and did not call her. Becoming alarmed at last, she went to her room, and found it empty. The bed had not been slept in. All Lucille's clothes were gone, but her gold chain and the silver dove worn by the Provençal women of the Religion, which she had inherited from her grandmother, were left behind. It was evident that Jeanne had no suspicion of the truth.

"She has left this writing," said she, producing a note, "though she knew that I could not read it. She has been talking more than once of late with that reprobate Pierre Le Febre. Doubtless she has gone away with him, and we can have no remedy, because he is of our enemies and we are of the Religion. Will madame have the goodness to read the note?"

"My poor Jeanne, the matter is not what you fear, but quite as bad," said my mother, reading the note, her color rising as she did so. "I fear you will never see poor Lucille again."

The note was a short and cold farewell, saying that the writer had become a Catholic, and was about to take refuge with the nuns at the hospital.

"I know I have never been a favorite with you, so I hope you will not be greatly grieved at my loss," was the cruel conclusion. "If I had had a happier home, things might have been different. Do not try to see me. It will only lead to trouble. Farewell."

I will not attempt to describe the anguish of the poor parents as the letter was finished. Simon was for going at once to the hospital to claim his daughter, and my mother with difficulty convinced him that such a step would be fruitless of anything but trouble.

"I would at least know that she is there," said Simon. "It may be that this is but a blind, after all."

"I fear not," said my mother; and she told him of the scene I had witnessed yesterday.

Simon walked up and down the room several times.

"Let her go!" said he at last. "She has been the child of many prayers. It may be those prayers will be heard, so that she will not be utterly lost. Come, my wife, let us return to our desolate home. Madame has cares and troubles enough already."