“He rests in peace,” said Victor Le Roy.

“It is what I must believe.  But what if there should be a mistake about it?  It was all I was working for.”

“Think for yourself, Jacqueline.  No matter what Leclerc thinks or I think.  Can you suppose that Jesus Christ requires any such thing as this of you, that you should make a slave of yourself for the expiation of your father?  It is a monstrous thought.  Doubt not it was love that took him away so quickly.  And love can care for him.  Long before this, doubtless, he has heard the words, ‘Come, ye blessed of my father!’ And what is required of you, do you ask?  You shall be merciful to them that live; and trust Him that He will care for those who have gone beyond your reach.  Is it so?  Do I understand you?  You have been thinking to buy this good gift of God, eternal life for your father, when of course you could have nothing to do with it.  You have been imposed upon, and robbed all this while, and this is the amount of it.”

“Well, do not speak so.  If what you say is true,—­and I think it may be,—­what is past is past.”

“But won’t you see what an infernal lie has been practised on you, and all the rest of us who had any conscience or heart in us, all this while?  There is no purgatory; and it is nonsense to think, that, if there were, money could buy a man out of it.  Jesus Christ is the one sole atonement for sin.  And by faith in Him shall a man save his soul alive.  That is the only way.  If I lose my soul, and am gone, the rest is between me and God.  Do you see it should be so, and must be so, Jacqueline?”

“He was a good man,” said Jacqueline.

She did not find it quite easy to make nothing of all this matter, which had been the main-spring of her effort since her father died.  She could not in one instant drop from her calculations that on which she had heretofore based all her activity.  She had labored so long, so hard, to buy the rest and peace and heavenly blessedness of the father she loved, it was hardly to be expected that at once she would choose to see that in that rest and peace and blessedness, she, as a producing power, had no part whatever.

As she more than hinted, the purpose of her life seemed to be taken from her.  She could not perceive that fact without some consternation; could not instantly connect it with another, which should enable her to look around her with the deliberation of a liberated spirit, choosing her new work.  And in this she was acted upon by more than the fear arising from the influences of her old belief.  Of course she should have been, and yet she was not, able to drop instantly and forever from recollection the constant sacrifices she had made, the deprivation she had endured, with heroic persistence,—­the putting far away every personal indulgence whose price had a market value.  Her father was not the only person concerned in this work; the priest; herself.  She had believed in the pastor of Domremy.  Yet he had deceived her.  Else he was self-deceived; and what if the blind should strive to lead the blind? Could she accept the new faith, the great freedom, with perfect rejoicing?