"My dear wife, what nonsense; no one could be looking in the window; you are whimsical. A woman's face! what next will you see?" Then he goes out smiling and down the road. He sees not the strange, wild figure flying after him, nor hears the faint voice calling his name.
"Cyril! Cyril Fanchon! Ah me! Husband! speak to me, your wife—your Jantie!"
The wind sweeps down the street in chilly gusts; the woman wraps her jacket around her; she stumbles on, on, blindly. A railing, enclosing a dark, grim building, comes in sight and looms up in the darkness; she struggles with the weakness that overtakes her; she falls, but she is conscious, only unable to move. All her weary journey has ended here; to find the man she believes to be her husband, with a wife and family. She loves him too well to expose his crime; for the gentle looking wife's sake she will give him up; she will lie here and die, and he will never know of the sacrifice she made. Ah yes, she has only her poor old mother, and by now she no doubt would think her better off if she were dead. Then a deadly faintness takes possession of her; she must be dying; then all is blank. A policeman, passing, does not notice the figure lying almost at his very feet. He buttons his waterproof coat up tighter and shivers, as he thinks of his comfortable home, and pities all who are so unfortunate as himself, to be out in the cold.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE CONVENT OF ST. MARGUERITE.
"Paradise is always where love dwells."
—Richter.
Tingle, tingle, tingle, chimes the tiny silver bell, and down the pretty newly swept gravel path file the pupils, two and two; the plain black dresses, and black hoods looking strangely quaint on the smiling faces of the girls going to early service. The sisters, with folded hands and devout downcast eyes, follow. Suddenly a moan or gasping sound makes sister Christine pause in her silent march behind the others. She looks about, then her eyes take a startled, anxious expression; she steps hurriedly forward to kneel beside a woman lying among the fragrant mignonette. With sister Christine to think is to act. She felt the faintly beating pulse; her first anxiety is over; the woman has but fainted. At first the sister, glancing at the set, white face, feared she could render no assistance on earth to this creature flung on her path. A tiny silver whistle hangs at her side; lifting it to her lips she blows a shrill toot; a mulatto boy, in a coat bright with silver buttons, runs down to her.