“Ah! is it possible?” cried she, clasping her hands. “Dear Solange! how unjust I have been to her!”
“Have you not been unjust to others also, my child?” asked the curé with gentleness. “Confess it, Jeannette; you should do so from a sense of justice.”
Jeannette hid her face in her hands, and burst into tears. The question had pierced her soul.
“M. le Curé,” said Pierrette, “I know of whom you wish to speak; but he, I believe, has not left the country, and his conduct, therefore, is scarcely excusable.”
“Ask your daughter,” replied the curé; “she, undoubtedly, can answer that question.”
And as Jeannette could not speak on account of her tears, he continued:
“What could he do, poor boy! but disappear when the only roof that could shelter him refused to receive him. He is no longer here, Mme. Ragaud, that child who loved you so dearly, and who had proved it so well. An inconsiderate word has driven him from your arms, and, having no other resource in this world, he is going to become a soldier, doubtless in the hope of dying honorably in fighting for his country.”
“Never did I drive off Jean-Louis, monsieur,” said good Pierrette; “no, never, I can truly swear.”
“Nor I,” said Ragaud; “and at this very moment I am ready to redeem him from the conscription.”
“However, he is gone,” replied the curé; “and he, like Solange, did not know you were in trouble.”