"What do you mean?" He stared at her figure, at her working hands, as though he expected to discover weapons about her.
Then her voice and her face both changed from reckless hardness to a kind of pitiful, childlike pleading: "Why, François, are you so unkind? You gave me this time. You must not be cruel yet—till I am ready."
In spite of himself he softened before the helplessness of the little, delicate creature. "What do you want, Victorine?" he asked, gently.
She was silent for some time, till he thought she had not heard him. When he was about to repeat his words, however, she said, with the faintest hesitation: "I want—to pray—here, if you will listen. I can never pray alone, because I need you—I need you when I am before God." She saw him shudder, and went on, imploringly: "Oh, François, let me pray here, once, for the last time! Is it so much to ask? Let me set myself a little more right—before you."
"Will you not be setting yourself more wrong? Can you pray?" he asked, sternly, after a troubled pause.
Her answer was to fall upon her knees before a chair near which she had been standing. The seat of this she grasped painfully with both her thin, delicate hands. When she began to speak her voice was so low that the man could barely hear it. Gradually, however, it became more distinct:
"O God! merciful Father! Mary, Mother of Jesus!—our Saviour—Christ—behold, I am come to you! Look down upon me where I am, and, in the name of Justice, no more, judge me! You, who know all things, know also my heart. You know my sin, but you know its reason. Oh, Thou who hast said, in pity, 'Because she has much loved, much shall she be forgiven,' behold me, pity me, also! "O God, thou knowest this French Court, thou knowest its life, how they take us, who do not yet know, into the midst of it. We are children at first—so young!—so young! And we cannot foresee the end. We do not know the prices here for—happiness. Is it, then, true that happiness is never to be found on earth? If we find it for a little while, are we not punished enough after to—expiate? Why were we not told all at first? We heard that such a thing as happiness there was. We wanted it—we hoped for it—we thought we found it. But we pay too high. Why do you ask so much for so little? Will you condemn us for our youth, our ignorance? Why must we pay? Why should we pay—with those years and years and endless years of sorrow? If I say that I will not pay—what then?
"God, thou art called merciful. Hast thou mercy for me, who have wronged none but myself? Ah, why was I decreed to be born and grow to womanhood? It has been useless. You will see. I—I—will not—I can—" She was beginning to gasp, sobbingly. The abbé, who had heard her in silence, came forward.
"Victorine, rise. This is a useless blasphemy."
"I know. I know. I cannot pray. God—will not—let me!" Her words came convulsively, and she shivered with cold. He picked her up in his arms and carried her over to the largest chair in the room. Here she remained, helpless and passive; and he left her, to return presently with a glass of cordial. In obedience to a look from him she took it, without protest. When he had set aside the empty glass, he turned to her and spoke: