?© de, 1799-1850 / 2008-11-26 00:00:00
"Forgive me, madame!" cried Godefroid.
Madame de Chanterie looked at her new lodger, and saw such an
expression of genuine regret upon his face, that she made him a
friendly sign. After drying her eyes, she immediately recovered the
calmness that characterized her face, which was less cold than
chastened.
"You are here, Monsieur Godefroid,--for you know already that we shall
call you by your baptized name,--you are here in the midst of ruins
caused by a great tempest. We have each been struck and wounded in our
hearts, our family interests, or our fortunes, by that whirlwind of
forty years, which overthrew religion and royalty, and dispersed the
elements of all that made old France. Words that seem quite harmless
do sometimes wound us all, and that is why we are so silent. We speak
rarely of ourselves; we forget ourselves, and we have found a way to
substitute another life for our lives. It is because, after hearing
your confidence at Monsieur Mongenod's, I thought there seemed a
likeness between your situation and ours, that I induced my four
friends to receive you among us; besides, we wanted another monk in
our convent. But what are you going to do? No one can face solitude
without some moral resources."
"Madame, I should be very glad, after hearing what you have said, if
you yourself would be the guide of my destiny."
"You speak like a man of the world," she answered, "and are trying to
flatter me,--a woman of sixty! My dear child," she went on, "let me
tell you that you are here among persons who believe strongly in God;
who have all felt his hand, and have yielded themselves to him almost
as though they were Trappists.
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