Visitors flocked to the convent which the young girl, by the advice of Giselle, had chosen for her retreat because it was situated in a quiet quarter.  She who looked so beautiful in her crape garments, who showed herself so satisfied in her little cell with hardly any furniture, who was grateful for the services rendered her by the lay sisters, content with having no salon but the convent parlor, who was passing examinations to become a teacher, and who seemed to consider it a favor to be sometimes allowed to hear the children in the convent school say their lessons—­was surely like a heroine in a novel.  And indeed Jacqueline had the agreeable sensation of considering herself one.  Public admiration was a great help to her, after she had passed through that crisis in her grief during which she could feel nothing but the horror of knowing she should never see her father again, when she had ceased to weep for him incessantly, to pray for him, and to turn, like a wounded lioness, on those who blamed his reckless conduct, though she herself had been its chief victim.

For three months she hardly left the convent, walking only in the grounds and gardens, which were of considerable extent.  From time to time Giselle came for her and took her to drive in the Bois at that hour of the day when few people were there.

Enguerrand, who, thanks to his mother’s care, was beginning to be an intelligent and interesting child, though he was still painfully like M. de Talbrun, was always with them in the coupe, kindhearted Giselle thinking that nothing could be so likely to assuage grief as the prattle of a child.  She was astonished—­she was touched to the heart, by what she called naively the conversion of Jacqueline.  It was true that the young girl had no longer any whims or caprices.  All the nuns seemed to her amiable, her lodging was all she needed, her food was excellent; her lessons gave her amusement.  Possibly the excitement of the entire change had much to do at first with this philosophy, and in fact at the end of six months Jacqueline owned that she was growing tired of dining at the table d’hote.

There was a little knot of crooked old ladies who were righteous overmuch, and several sour old maids whose only occupation seemed to be to make remarks on any person who had anything different in dress, manners, or appearance from what they considered the type of the becoming.  If it is not good that man should live alone, it is equally true that women should not live together.  Jacqueline found this out as soon as her powers of observation came back to her.  And about the same time she discovered that she was not so free as she had flattered herself she should be.  The appearance of a lady, fair and with light hair, very pretty and about her own age, gave her for the first time an inclination to talk at table.  She and this young woman met twice a day at their meals, in the morning and in the evening; their rooms were next each other, and at night Jacqueline