The Farm Of Muiceron. By Marie Rheil.
From The Revue Du Monde Catholique.
XIX.
Now, to quiet your mind—for you must be as shocked as I am at all these horrors—we will speak, if you please, of our friend Jean-Louis. On the afternoon of the day which proved the last for the innocent Barbette, Jeannet, knowing that the wood-cutters would be dismissed, and that consequently he would have some leisure time, went off to the Luguets' to have a little consoling conversation with good Solange. He kept no secrets from her, and expected great relief in recounting faithfully all that had happened; but, on entering, he instantly perceived something new had occurred in the house. The men were out at work; Mme. Luguet was seated by the fire, weeping bitterly; and Solange, sitting on a stool at her feet, was speaking to her in an angelic voice of her desire to enter a convent. Jeannet discreetly wished to withdraw.
“Don't go,” said Solange to him; “isn't it so, mother? Jeannet will not disturb us?”
“No, dear; on the contrary, my child, I am happy to see you, Jean-Louis. Is it true that you will be free to accompany Solange to Paris?”
“Alas! Mme. Luguet,” replied Jeannet, “why should I not be free, having neither family nor friends, save only you and yours? The only roof that sheltered me from infancy is henceforward forbidden to me, without counting that, before many hours, the only thing that I can call my own—on condition that God leaves it to me—and that is my life, may be taken also.”
“What has happened?” asked Solange. “You speak in a quiet, serious tone that frightens me.”
“I have done my duty, dear Solange, and often in this world, after performing an act of conscience and justice, any consequence may be expected.”