’And you, sister, must show no relenting.  Let her not fancy she can work upon you.’

By this time the brother and sister were at the gateway of the convent; a lay sister presided there, but there was no cloture, as the strict seclusion of a nunnery was called, and the Chevalier rode into the cloistered quadrangle as naturally as if he had been entering a secular Chateau, dismounted at the porch of the hall, and followed Madame de Bellaise to the parlour, while she dispatched a request that her niece would attend her there.

The parlour had no grating to divide it, but was merely a large room furnished with tapestry, carved chests, chairs, and cushions, much like other reception-rooms.  A large, cheerful wood-fire blazed upon the hearth, and there was a certain air of preparation, as indeed an ecclesiastical dignity from Saumur was expected to sup with the ladies that evening.

After some interval, spent by the Chevalier in warming himself, a low voice at the door was heard, saying, ‘Deus vobiscum.’  The Abbess answered, ‘Et cum spiritu tuo;’ and on this monastic substitute for a knock and ‘come in,’ there appeared a figure draped and veiled from head to foot in heavy black, so as to look almost like a sable moving cone.  She made an obeisance as she entered, saying, ‘You commanded my presence, Madame?’

‘Your uncle would speak to you, daughter, on affairs of moment.’

‘At his service.  I, too, would speak to him.’

‘First, then, my dear friend,’ said the Chevalier, ’let me see you.  That face must not be muffled any longer from those who love you.’

She made no movement of obedience, until her aunt peremptorily bade her turn back her veil.  She did so, and disclosed the little face, so well known to her uncle, but less childish in its form, and the dark eyes sparkling, though at once softer and more resolute.

‘Ah! my fair niece,’ said the Chevalier, ’this is no visage to be hidden!  I am glad to see it re-embellished, and it will be lovelier than ever when you have cast off this disguised.’

‘That will never be,’ said Eustacie.

’Ah! we know better!  My daughter is sending down a counterpart of her own wedding-dress for your bride of the Mardi-Gras.’

‘And who may that bride be?’ said Eustacie, endeavouring to speak as though it were nothing to her.

’Nay, ma petite! it is too long to play the ignorant when the bridegroom is on his way from Paris.’

‘Madame,’ said Eustacie, turning to her aunt, ’you cannot suffer this scandal.  The meanest peasant may weep her first year of widowhood in peace.’

’Listen, child.  There are weighty reasons.  The Duke of Anjou is a candidate for the throne of Poland, and my son is to accompany him thither.  He must go as Marquis de Nid de Merle, in full possession of your estates.’

‘Let him take them,’ began Eustacie, ’who first commits a cowardly murder, and then forces himself on the widow he has made?’