And she wiped her moist eyelid, and cast on her master her veiled, long, silent look.

She said so well:  “my duty,” “I wish to do my duty,” that one felt filled with admiration for this holy maid.

Oh! divine modesty, perfume of woman, sweet enchantment which gently penetrates the heart of man, ready always to unfold.

Besides, what hearts had unfolded for her! what ravages had been caused by her austere deportment and her substantial charms.  More than one buxom village lad had made warm proposals with honourable intentions, and the gallant corporal of gendarmes had tried on several occasions to enter upon this delicate subject with her.

But she had willed to remain a maid and virtuous, and vowed herself body and soul to the service of the Church, to the glory of God, and the fortune of her pastor.

She approached the hearth with slow steps, blew on the embers, relighted the lamp, and placing it so as to throw the light on her master’s face, she said to him anxiously: 

—­You are in pain, are you not?

—­You were there then? said the Cure dissatisfied.

—­Yes, she answered him with the affectionate tone of a mother, I was there, pardon me; I was going to bed, and I heard you talking aloud, there was no light; I feared you were ill, and I ventured to come in.

—­And you have heard?

—­I have heard that you were not happy, that is all.

—­No one is happy in this world, Veronica.

—­Yes, we are so only in the other, I know that.  And yet happiness is so easy.

The Cure put his head between his hands without replying.

The servant went on: 

—­Can it be that I, your servant, a poor ignorant village girl, should say that to you, Monsieur le Cure?

—­What, Veronica?

—­But what matters our condition on earth?  We are in a state of transition. 
Holy Mary, she too, was a poor servant and now she is far above a queen.

—­Without doubt, said the Cure.

—­We must then despise nobody.  Under the most humble appearance, God often conceals his most faithful servants.

—­Most certainly.  But what are you driving at?

—­At this, Monsieur le Cure; that we must be good and indulgent to everybody:  that the great sometimes have need of the little, and that when we are able to render a service to our neighbour we must do it without hesitation.

—­It is Jesus who commands it, Veronica.  But explain yourself, I pray.

—­Well! yes, I will speak, she replied, for I am pained to see you thus, and the more so as it is certainly allowed me to tell you so, me who am destined, please God, to live with you.  I have only known you since you were our Cure, but you have been so good to me that I love you like ... a sister.  I was all alone here, like a poor forsaken creature, after the death of my old master, the Abbe Fortin—­may God keep his soul,—­and you consented to keep me when taking the parsonage.  It is good of you, for you might have brought with you your former servant, or again some niece, as many do.