“But shall you not write first to announce your arrival?” inquired the abbess.

“No; because I can go to England just as quickly as a letter can, and I would rather go.  There is a train from L’Ange at five P. M. I can go by that and reach Calais in time for the morning boat, and be in London by noon to-morrow—­as soon as a letter could go.  And I could see my husband, actually see him, before I could possibly get a letter from him,” said Salome, brightening.

“If his grace should be in London,” put in the abbess.

“I think he will be in London.  If he is not there, I can find out where he is, and follow him.  Dear madam, do not hinder me.  I must start by the first available train,” said Salome, earnestly.

“I do not desire to hinder you,” answered the lady-superior.

Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Sister Francoise, who pale and agitated, sank upon the nearest seat, and sat trembling and speechless, until the abbess exclaimed: 

“For the love of Heaven, Sister Francoise, tell us what has happened.  Who is ill?  Who is dead?”

“Helas! holy mother!” gasped the nun, losing her breath again immediately.

Salome drew a small phial of sal volatile from her pocket and uncorked and applied it to the nose of the fainting nun, saying soothingly: 

“Now tell us what has overcome you, good sister.”

“Ah, my child!  It is dreadful!  It is terrible!  It is horrible!  It is awful!  But they are bringing him in!” gasped Sister Francoise, snuffing vigorously at the sal volatile, and still beside herself with excitement.

“What!  What!  Who are they bringing in?” demanded the abbess, in alarm.

“I’m going to tell you!  Oh, give me time!  It is stupefying!  It is annihilating!  The poor gentleman who has just shot himself through the body!” gasped Sister Francoise, losing her breath again after this effort.

“A gentleman shot himself!” echoed Salome, in consternation.

The abbess, pale as death, said not a word, but left the unnerved sister to the care of Salome, and went out to see what had really happened.

She met the little Sister Felecitie in the passage.

“What is all this, my daughter?” she inquired, in a very low voice.

“They have taken him into the refectory, madam.  That was the nearest to the gate, where it happened.  It happened just outside the south gate, madam.  They took off a leaf of the gate, and laid him on it and brought him in,” answered the trembling little novice, rather incoherently.

“Daughter, I have often admonished you that you must not address me as ‘madam,’ but as ‘mother.’”

“I beg your pardon, holy mother; but I was so frightened, I forgot.”

“Now tell me quickly, and clearly, what happened near the south gate?”

“Oh, madam!—­holy mother, I mean!—­the suicide! the suicide!”