“Very well, dear child,” replied the curé; “and may the Blessed Virgin console you, my daughter!”
Jeanne retired under the heavy foliage, and really took her little rosary out of her pocket. But this wood recalled many sweet reminiscences. It was there Jean-Louis had found her and saved her life on that stormy night the year before. She looked for the spot, near the woodman's cabin, where he had taken her in his arms with a father's care; and as the remembrance of all this past happiness, which she had then slighted, came back to her heart, she leant against a tree, and hid her face in her hands.
Whether they were tears of repentance, of regret, of love, or of prayer that fell from her eyes God only knows; and surely, in his infinite goodness, he waited for this moment of supreme anguish, which could not have endured much longer, to say to that heart-broken child, “You have suffered enough; now be happy!”
For in that same hour Jean-Louis, wild with joy, leaped from the imperial of the country stage on the highroad, and ran, without stopping to take breath, toward his beloved Muiceron.
He also remembered the stormy night, and, from a sentiment you can well understand, wished to see again the little hut, if only to throw a passing glance.
He reached the spot, and was soon near the tree where Jeannette leant motionless. He recognized her. The beating of his heart almost suffocated him; for, with a lover's instinct, he immediately knew, if she had come to weep in that spot, it could only be on his account.
He advanced until he stood close behind her.
“Jeanne!” said he, so softly he scarcely heard his own voice.
Jeannette turned, and gave one scream. Her eyes wandered a moment, as if she had seen a phantom, and she fell half-dead into his arms.
“Jeanne! dear, dear Jeanne! don't you know me?” said he, pressing her to his breast. “I have caused you much sorrow, but it is all over—oh! it is all over; tell me, is it not?”