Père Antoine drew a deep breath, his luminous eyes looking over Péron’s head into space.
“We cannot judge,” he said, in a low voice, “but I have never known a better woman.”
“Was she as good as my mother?” asked the child bluntly.
“She was as good as your mother,” replied the priest slowly.
“Maître Jacques made me say my prayers there,” remarked Péron gravely.
The sad shadow in Père Antoine’s blue eyes cleared, as sometimes the clouds break in the eastern sky and let the sun shine through.
“It is well,” he said, and there was a reverent pause.
But this was not the end of it.
“Is that her little girl who lives at Nançay?” was the next question.
Père Antoine started, and the sensitive flush came again.