The Chevalier's daughter

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

"Vevette," said he, "is there no place from which we can view this procession in safety? I have a great curiosity about it."

"Oh, yes, we can do so from the top of the rock at the end of our lane, if you like," I answered. "But we must make haste thither, for they will soon be on their way."

I was all the more ready for the adventure as I hoped to obtain a glimpse of Lucille.

We were soon safely hidden among the tall bushes and wild vines which covered the top of the rock, but not too soon, for we were hardly settled before the head of the procession appeared in sight. It had been joined by pilgrims from all parts of Normandy, and looked like a little army. The cross-bearer came first, as usual, then a company of priests, loudly chanting as they walked, then banners without number, and I know not what devices besides of images and angels and what not. Then came a company of women, headed by the nuns from the hospital, each leading by the hand one of the new converts, as they were called, in bitter derision.

The poor little Luchon was there, pale and thin as a shadow. Her wasted hand held a rosary like the rest, but it drooped listlessly by her side. Either the sad-faced nun who led her by the other hand did not think it worth while to have a public contest with her, or she had tried and failed, for she did not interfere with the child, and, I even fancied, looked at her with an eye of pity.

Lucille was one of the last. I saw in a moment that she was at least no happier than she had been at home, for the dark shade was on her face which I knew so well. However, she was telling her beads as diligently as the best of them. As she passed the foot of the rock she looked up. I had ventured a little nearer the edge than was quite prudent, and our eyes met for a moment. She made me a warning sign, and then a bitter smile curled her lips, and she pressed to them with fervor the crucifix attached to her rosary. Her companion looked up also, but saw nothing, as I had shrunk back from my dangerous position. That was the last time I saw my old playmate for many a long day, though I heard from her once or twice, as I have reason to remember.

There were more banners and more pilgrims, but I saw none of them. I had retreated to the back of the cliff and thrown myself down on the moss in a fit of bitter weeping. I had loved Lucille dearly, despite our many quarrels, and I believe she loved me as much as her self-absorbed nature would let her love any one. Hers was an asking love, always thinking more of what it was to get than of what it had to give.

Andrew was so absorbed in the spectacle that he did not miss me till all were past, and when he came to find me, he was frightened at my agitation. It was some time before I could even be got to move or speak. Andrew brought me water in a little drinking-cup he always carried, fanned me, and soothed me with the greatest tenderness, and at last I was able to tell him the story.

"Then that was the girl who looked up," said he. "I thought there was something peculiar about her. She does not look very happy with her new friends. I wonder what they will do with her?"

"Make a nun of her, if they can squeeze her dowry out of Father Simon, or perhaps marry her up to some one," I answered. "Julienne's sister says the Le Febres are very angry with Pierre for marrying his old sweetheart Isabeau, when he might have waited and taken Lucille and her farm."