men; will no one take up the other side of the question?  We, the stronger sex, are weak in this—­we are too chivalrous.  When a woman flings herself on our mercy we spare her and are silent.  Tortures will not wring her secrets out of us; something holds us back from betraying her.  I know not what it can be—­perhaps it is the memory of our mothers.  Whatever it is, it is certain that many a man allows himself to be disgraced rather than he will disgrace a woman.  But a time is at hand when this foolish chivalry of ours will die out.  On changera tout cela!  When once our heavy masculine brains shall have grasped the novel idea that woman has by her own wish and choice resigned all claim on our respect or forbearance, we shall have our revenge.  We are slow to change the traditions of our forefathers, but no doubt we shall soon manage to quench the last spark of knightly reverence left in us for the female sex, as this is evidently the point the women desire to bring us to.  We shall meet them on that low platform of the “equality” they seek for, and we shall treat them with the unhesitating and regardless familiarity they so earnestly invite!

Absorbed in thought, I knew not when the service ended.  A hand touched me, and looking up I saw Mere Marguerite, who whispered: 

“Follow me, if you please.”

I rose and obeyed her mechanically.  Outside the chapel door she said: 

“Pray excuse me for hurrying you, but strangers are not permitted to see the nuns and boarders passing out.”

I bowed, and walked on beside her.  Feeling forced to say something, I asked: 

“Have you many boarders at this holiday season?”

“Only fourteen,” she replied, “and they are children whose parents live far away.  Poor little ones!” and the set lines of the nun’s stern face softened into tenderness as she spoke.  “We do our best to make them happy, but naturally they feel lonely.  We have generally fifty or sixty young girls here, besides the day scholars.”

“A great responsibility,” I remarked.

“Very great indeed!” and she sighed; “almost terrible.  So much of a woman’s after life depends on the early training she receives.  We do all we can, and yet in some cases our utmost efforts are in vain; evil creeps in, we know not how—­some unsuspected fault spoils a character that we judged to be admirable, and we are often disappointed in our most promising pupils.  Alas! there is nothing entirely without blemish in this world.”

Thus talking, she showed me into a small, comfortable-looking room, lined with books and softly carpeted.

“This is one of our libraries,” she explained.  “The countess will receive you here, as other visitors might disturb you in the drawing-room.  Pardon me,” and her steady gaze had something of compassion in it, “but you do not look well.  Can I send you some wine?”

I declined this offer with many expressions of gratitude, and assured her I was perfectly well.  She hesitated, and at last said, anxiously: