But Eustacie’s misery was far beyond the ken of her aunt, and the jovial turn of these consolations did but deepen her agony.  To be congratulated on her release from the heretic, assured of future happiness with her cousin, and, above all, to hear Berenger abused with all the bitterness of rival family and rival religion, tore up the lacerated spirit.  Ill, dejected, and broken down, too subdued to fire up in defence, and only longing for the power of indulging in silent grief, Eustacie had shrunk from her, and wrapped herself up in the ceaseless round of masses and prayers, in which she was allowed to perceive a glimmering of hope for her husband’s soul.  The Abbess, ever busy with affairs of her convent or matters of pleasure, soon relinquished the vain attempt to console where she could not sympathize, trusted that the fever of devotion would wear itself out, and left her niece to herself.  Of the seven nuns, two were decorously gay, like their Mother Abbess; one was a prodigious worker of tapestry, two were unrivalled save by one another as confectioners.  Eustacie had been their pet in her younger days; now she was out of their reach, they tried in turn to comfort her; and when she would not be comforted, they, too, felt aggrieved by the presence of one whose austerity reproached their own laxity; they resented her disappointment at Soeur Monique’s having been transferred to Lucon, and they, too, left her to the only persons whose presence she had ever seemed to relish,—­namely, her maid Veronique, and Veronique’s mother, her old nurse Perrine, wife of a farmer about two miles off.  The woman had been Eustacie’s foster-mother, and continued to exert over her much of the caressing care of a nurse.

After parting with her aunt, Eustacie for a moment looked towards the chapel, then, clasping her hands, murmured to herself, ’No! no! speed is my best hope;’ and at once mounted the stairs, and entered a room, where the large stone crucifix, a waxen Madonna, and the holy water font gave a cell-like aspect to the room; and a straw pallet covered with sackcloth was on the floor, a richly curtained couch driven into the rear, as unused.

She knelt for a moment before the Madonna; ’Ave Maria, be with me and mine.  Oh! blessed Lady, thou hadst to fly with thy Holy One from cruel men.  Have thou pity on the fatherless!’

Then going to the door, she clapped her hands; and, as Veronique entered, she bade her shut and bolt the door, and at the same moment began in nervous haste to throw off her veil and unfasten her dress.

‘Make haste, Veronique.  A dress of thine—–­’

‘All is known, then!’ cried Veronique, throwing up her arms.

’No, but he is coming—­Narcisse—­to marry me at once—­Marde-Gras- —­’

’Et quoi?  Madame has but to speak the word, and it is impossible.’

’And after what my aunt has said, I would die a thousand deaths ere speaking that word.  I asked her, Veronique!  She would have vengeance on the most guiltless—­the most guiltless—­do you hear?—­ of the Norman house.  Never, never shall she have the chance!  Come, thy striped petticoat!’