“Since God has brought me to this convent, and by chance I have got to know and appreciate this youthful victim, I shall give her my compassion and help,—­I, who have no necessity to make conversions by force in order to add to the number of my community.  If I have committed any grave offence in the eyes of God, I trust that He will pardon me in consideration of the good work that I desire to do.  I shall write to the King, and Mademoiselle d’Amurande shall not make her vows until his Majesty commands her to do so.”

This last speech checkmated my sister.  She at once became gentle, sycophantic, almost caressing in manner, and assured me that the ceremony of taking the vow would be indefinitely postponed, although the Bishop of Lugon had already prepared his homily, and invitations had been issued to the nobility.

Madame de Mortemart is the very embodiment of subtlety and cunning.  I saw that she only wanted to gain time in order to carry out her scheme.  I did not let myself be hoodwinked by her promises, but went straight to work, being determined to have my own way.

Hearing from Mademoiselle d’Amurande that her friend and ally, the old commander, was still living, I was glad to know that she had in him such a stanch supporter.  “It is the worthy commander,” said I, “who must be as a father to you, until I have got the sentence of the first Parliament cancelled.”  Then we arranged that I should get her away with me from the convent, as there seemed to be little or no difficulty about this.

Accordingly, three days afterwards I dressed her in a most elegant costume of my niece’s.  We went out in the morning for a drive, and the nuns at the gateway bowed low, as usual, when my carriage passed, never dreaming of such a thing as abduction.

That evening the whole convent seemed in a state of uproar.  Madame de Mortemart, with flaming visage, sought to stammer out her reproaches.  But as there was no law to prevent my action, she had to hide her vexation, and behave as if nothing had happened.

The following year I wrote and told her that the judgment of the Rennes Parliament had been cancelled by the Grand Council, as it was based on conflicting evidence.  The blind Comte d’Amurande had died of rage, and the young couple, who came into all his property, were eternally grateful to me, and forever showered blessings upon my head.

The Abbess wrote back to say that she shared my satisfaction at so happy a conclusion, and that Madame d’Olbruse’s disappearance from Fontevrault had scarcely been noticed.

The Marquise de Thianges, whose ideas regarding such matters were precisely the same as my own, confined herself to stating that I had not told her a word about it.  She spoke the truth; for the enterprise was not of such difficulty that I needed any one to help me.

On the twelfth day, as we were about to leave Fontevrault, I received another letter from the King, which was as follows: