“And what other enemies has Sainte Jeanne?”
“Sieur de la Salle, have I not often told you what a sinner I am? It ridicules me to call me saint.”
“Since you have grown to be a young demoiselle I ought to call you Mademoiselle le Ber.”
“Call me Sainte Jeanne rather than that. I do not want to be a young demoiselle, or in this glittering company. It is my father who insists.”
“Nor do I want to be in this glittering company, Sainte Jeanne.”
“The worst of all the other enemies, Sieur de la Salle, are vanity and a dread of enduring pain. I am very fond of dress.” The young creature drew a deep regretful breath.
“But you mortify this fondness?” said La Salle, accompanying with whimsical sympathy every confession of Jeanne le Ber’s.
“Indeed I have to humiliate myself often—often. When this evil desire takes strong hold, I put on the meanest rag I can find. But my father and mother will never let me go thus humbled to Mass.”
“Therein do I commend your father and mother,” said La Salle; “though the outside we bear toward men is of little account. But tell me how do you school yourself to pain, Sainte Jeanne? I have not learned to bear pain well in all my years.”
Jeanne again met his face with swarming lights in her eyes. Seeing that no one observed them she bent her head toward La Salle and parted the hair over her crown. The straight fine growth was very thick and of a brown color. It reminded him of midwinter swamp grasses springing out of a bed of snow. A mat of burrs was pressed to this white scalp. Some of the hair roots showed red stains.