During that period she had pictured just how the young couple would look,--how beautiful the bride would appear,--how n.o.ble and handsome Jean Marot would shine at her side.

She supplied all of the details as she had seen them once before, correcting and rearranging them in her mind with scrupulous care.

All of this dreamily and without emotion, as one lies in the summer shade idly tracing the fleeting clouds across a summer's sky.

She had grown wonderfully calm, and when she turned away she gently put the picture behind her as an accomplished material thing.

On her way she paused before the little chapel of Ste. Genevieve.

There were candles burning before the altar, and a delicious, holy incense filled the air.

Mlle. Fouchette recalled the stories of the intercession of Ste.

Genevieve in behalf of virgin suppliants, and impetuously fell upon her knees outside the railing and bowed her face in her hands.

She knew absolutely nothing of theological truth and error; religion was to her only a vague scheme devised for other people--not for her.

She had never in all her life uttered a prayer save on compulsion.

Now, impulsively and without forethought, she was kneeling before the altar and acknowledging G.o.d and the intercession of the Christ.

It was the instinct of poor insignificant humanity--the weakest and the strongest, the worst and the best--to seek in the hour of suffering and despair some higher power upon which to unburden the load of life.

To say now that Mlle. Fouchette prayed would be too much. She did not know how,--and the few sentences she recalled from Le Bon Pasteur seemed the mere empty rattle of beads.

She simply wished. And as Mlle. Fouchette never did anything by halves, she wished devoutly, earnestly, pa.s.sionately, and with the hot tears streaming from her eyes, without uttering a single word.

It would have been, from her point of view, quite impertinent for her to thrust her little affairs directly before the Throne. She was too timid even to appeal to the Holy Virgin, as she had often heard others do, with the familiarity of personal acquaintance; but she felt that she might approach Ste. Genevieve, patronne des vierges, with some confidence, if not a sense of right.

She silently and tearfully laid her heart bare to Ste. Genevieve, and with her whole pa.s.sionate soul called upon her for support and a.s.sistance. If ever a young virgin needed help it was she, Fouchette, and if Ste. Genevieve had any influence at the higher court, now was the time to use it. First it was that Jean and Andree might be happy and think of her kindly now and then; next, that she might be forgiven for everything up to date and be permitted to be good,--that some way might be opened to her, and that she might be kept in that way.

Otherwise she must surely die.

If Sister Agnes might only be restored to her, it would be enough. It was all she would ask,--the rest would follow. She must have Sister Agnes,--good Sister Agnes, who loved her and would protect her and lead her safely to the better life. Oh! only send her Sister Agnes----

"My child, you are in trouble?"

That gentle voice! The soft, caressing touch!

Ah! le bon Dieu!

It was Sister Agnes, truly!

The religieuse, ever struggling against the desires of the flesh, had unconsciously kneeled side by side with the youthful suppliant.

Disturbed by the sobs of the latter, she had addressed her sympathetically.

To poor little ignorant and believing Fouchette it was as if one of the beautiful painted angels had suddenly a.s.sumed life and, leaving the vaulted ceiling, had come floating down to softly brush her with her protecting wings. Awe-stricken at what seemed a direct manifestation of G.o.d, she found no words to express either surprise or joy. She simply toppled over into the arms of the astonished religieuse and lost consciousness. The reaction was too great.

Sister Agnes, who had not recognized in the girl dressed as a bonne-a-toute-faire her protegee of Le Bon Pasteur, was naturally somewhat startled at this unexpected demonstration, and called aloud for the sacristan.

"Blessed be G.o.d!" she exclaimed, when they had carried the girl into the light of the vestry,--"it is Mademoiselle Fouchette!"

"What's she doing here?" demanded the man, with a mixture of suspicion and indignation.

"Certainly nothing bad, monsieur. No, it can be nothing bad which leads a young girl to prostrate herself at this hour before the altar of the blessed Ste. Genevieve!"

"Ste. Genevieve! That girl? That---- Mere de Dieu! what next?"

"Chut!"

"But it's a sacrilege, my sister. It's a profanation of G.o.d's holy temple!"

"S-sh! monsieur----"

"It's a wonder she was not stricken dead! Before Ste. Genevieve!"

"S-sh! monsieur," protested the religieuse, gently, "ne jugez pas!"

"But----"

"Ne jugez pas!"

They had, in the mean time, applied simple restoratives with such effect that Mlle. Fouchette soon began to exhibit signs of reanimation.

"Will you kindly leave me alone with her here for a few minutes?"

whispered Sister Agnes.

"Willingly," replied the ruffled attendant. "And mighty glad to----"

"S-sh!"

When Mlle. Fouchette's eyes were finally opened they first fell upon the motherly face of Sister Agnes, then wandered rapidly about the room, as if to fix her situation definitely, to again rest upon the religieuse. And this look was one of inexpressible content,--of boundless love and confidence.

Sister Agnes, who was seated on the edge of the sofa on which the girl lay extended, leaned over and affectionately kissed her lips.

"You are much better now, my child?"

"Oh, yes, indeed! I was afraid it might be only--only a dream,--one dreams such things, n'est-ce pas? But it is true! There is really a G.o.d, and prayers are answered--when one believes,--yes; when one believes very hard! Even the prayers of a poor little, miserable, wicked, motherless girl like me. Ah!----"

"Cer--certainly, cherie; but don't try to talk just yet. Wait a bit.

You will feel stronger."

The religieuse thought the girl's mind was wandering.

"And good Ste. Genevieve heard me and had you sent to me. It was all I asked. For I knew that if I only had you, I could be good, and I would know what to do. It was all I asked--for myself. And you were sent at once. Dear, good, sweet Sister Agnes!--the only one who ever loved me!--except Tartar,--and love is necessary, n'est-ce pas?"

"You asked for me?"

Sister Agnes listened now with intense interest. Mlle. Fouchette was a revelation.

"Oh! yes,--and they sent you--almost at once! Blessed Ste. Genevieve!"

"Why, what was the matter, Fouchette?" inquired Sister Agnes, wiping her eyes, after gently disengaging the young arms from her neck. She tried to speak cheerily.