“I will follow my father wherever he is going, come life or come death, and nobody shall prevent me.”
Claire rose upon her knees.
Sister Brésoles opened the chapel door, carrying in a bowl of soup as she would have carried it to a soldier whose wounds refused to allow his being lifted.
The patient was in evident thanksgiving. Daylight had just begun to glimmer in. Claire’s face shone with the passionate white triumph which religious ascetics of that day looked forward to as the crowning result of their vigils. Flushed with reactionary hope, she rose to her feet as if the pavement had left no stiffness in her muscles, and met the nun.
“St. Joseph and all the Holy Family give you peace, mademoiselle.”
“Peace hath been granted me, Sister. My prayer is answered.”
“Great is the power of the Holy Family. But after your long vigil you will need this strengthening broth which I have made for you.”
“Sister, you are kind. Let me take it to your refectory. I know the place. And may this young girl attend me?”
“I will carry it myself, mademoiselle,” said Sister Judith, “to our rude parlor, if you will follow me up the stairs. The refectory is somewhat chilly, and in the parlor we have a fire kindled. And you may bathe your face and hands before eating your soup.”