“The best thing next to a live saint,” remarked Louise, “is a dead saint’s bone which will heal maladies. But, mademoiselle,—the Virgin forgive me!—I would rather see my own mother this day than any saint, alive or dead.”
“The good Marguerite! How strange it must seem to her that you and I have been driven this long journey—if the dead know anything about us.”
“She would be glad I was in the ship to wait upon you, mademoiselle. And I must have done poorly for myself in Rouen. Our curé said great matches were made out here.”
“Now, tell me, Louise, have you the courage for this?”
“I am here and must do my duty, mademoiselle.”
“But can you marry a strange man this evening or to-morrow morning and go off with him to his strange home, to bear whatever he may inflict on you?”
“My mother told me,” imparted Louise, gazing at the floor, where lay two or three rugs made by the nuns themselves, “that the worst thing about a man is his relatives. And if he lives by himself in the woods, these drawbacks will be away.”
“You have no terror of the man himself?”
“Yes, mademoiselle. I can hardly tell at sight whether a man is inclined to be thrifty or not. It would be cruel to come so far and then fare worse than at Rouen. But since my mother is not here to make the marriage, I must do the best I can.”