"But "That is true," assented Henri's mother. I warn you, you will need to look out for the sous." "She will hold them tight, yes, yes; but try as she will, some must creep out of her fingers," Nannon said, nodding cheerfully; "and if M. Deshouliéres succeeds in driving that unfortunate boy out of his place, I shall that the saints have sent us all a recompense. That is what they do sometimes, as I will say for them, and when one does not altogether expect it at their hands. And mademoiselle asked for JeanMarie." say Thérèse walked quickly away from the little sunshiny vine-covered court, set in the framework of its grim old pointed doorway, and went back to the Cathedral, going round this time to the south portal, by which she knew she could find entrance. It lay in the full blaze of sunlight: flying buttresses, open pillars, and enormous gargoyles threw sharp shadows on the clear warm colour of the stone. One of the doors was open: inside lay, as it seemed, a vast chasm of darkness, but from out of the midst of it the opposite transept window gleamed like a gorgeous bed of jewels. A great bell tolled solemnly; up the broad steps swept a long procession of the white-veiled children, and sisters in their serge dresses. Thérèse followed them; she found a chair, and tried not to notice the stir and bustle about her. People crowded in until the great Cathedral was almost filled. The service was held outside the choir; the little white multitude stood in the centre: on one side were other children in red dresses and rose-wreaths; all round were throngs of loving or curious spectators-warm lights flashed through the magnificent glass. Presently from high overhead dropped the first sweet notes of the organ, and the young fresh voices swelled up to meet it. Yet Some of the women were crying. There was something about the service which was inexpressibly touching: the vast sombre ancient church, the childish voices. Thérèse, who had been strangely excited before, almost sobbed as she knelt. even there her desolation and solitude seemed to wrap her round; and she had not so much as any one to pray for, she thought, except Fabien. Her prayer went up, eager and piteous, that Fabien might come and she might be happy. CHAPTER VIII. "Behind this eminence the sun Would drop serenely, long ere day was done; Beyond the town, and glittering in his beam, -ARCHBISHOP TRENCH. LOOKING back afterwards, it seemed to Thérèse as if that soft July day had been her last day of liberty; Octavie and Adolphe became terrible taskmasters. The weather changed, it grew hot, sultry, oppressive; and, unaccustomed to the confinement of such a life, she used to sit in the stuffy little room at Rue St. Servan and gasp for a breath of fresh air. 'Adolphe, must you be all day about your theme?" she would ask, a little too impatiently perhaps; and then Octavie would hold her disagreeable little head in the air and reply, "Mamma does not like you to correct Adolphe, mademoiselle." 66 The truth was that she was not patient at all in these days. She hated the lessons and the eternal mendings, and all the petty humiliations madame H visited upon her-hated them with all her heart, and endured them only as alternatives for worse things. There must come a day of escape, she thought; but her hope had lost something of its spring, and was beginning to grow restless and feverish. Every morning she got up thinking that surely some news must be heard of Fabien that day, and every day with the disappointment the weight in her heart became heavier. She could not understand it. She was still so childish in some respects that she thought the good things must certainly come, and the hard things go away; she pictured Fabien to herself as a kind of beautiful fairy prince, at whose appearance Madame Roulleau and Monsieur Deshouliéres, the fear of the convent, and the terrible children, and the great heaps of worn-out clothes, would die away out of her life. She painted her own future in these brilliant colours until it seemed absolutely to belong to her. But although, when misgivings of its certainty obtruded themselves, she rebelled against them as almost wicked, I am inclined to think that misgivings came more frequently as the weeks went on. After all, the mending was not half so unendurable as the teaching. The clothes were a burden, but they could not contradict her, or make disagreeable remarks like Octavie, or have Adolphe's fits of obstinate sulkiness. She was not patient, as has been said, but she might with justice have pleaded a certain amount of excuse when she had but the choice of being called cross by the children, or remiss by their mother. Octavie-who was dressed in the extreme of fashion, and had a sallow face, high strongly-marked eyebrows, black eyes, and hair drawn up into a number of little curls at the back of her head-kept a sharp look-out for poor Thérèse's short-comings. "Mamma does not think Adolphe has improved in his writing;" "Mamma expects that you will see that our rooms are always in order, mademoiselle." When Thérèse could not smile at these speeches they hurt her terribly, and the power of smiling seemed to be slipping away. Old Nannon came to Rue St. Servan, and was duly acknowledged as the girl's attendant whenever she went out, which was not too often. She and Madame Roulleau had a preliminary skirmish, from which madame retired a little discomfited; for, with all her simplicity, Nannon had no lack of shrewdness. And in spite of the spirit of contradiction which prompted it, Thérèse had not made a bad choice for herself in the matter. There was a fresh vigorous heart beating in the old woman's bosom, an unconquerable fidelity, keen humour, clear wit; she liked anything young and pretty, and felt a great compassion for this girl, |