"Mother Sainte Anne?" "Only an acquaintance of former days, Jean, a friend of forty years ago. But have courage, my son. Gabrielle has not yet taken the veil, has not even begun the novitiate. The bride of Heaven? No, no! For a young girl of such accomplishments, of a beauty so rare, of an affection so tender, it was a sad mistake. How I would have cherished her! How she would have adorned the home, brightened the fireside! And the children that might have played about, sat upon one’s knee, thrown their arms about one’s neck! _Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_! What a mistake!" "Monsieur!" "Jean!" "You are not speaking of Gabrielle." "Of Gabrielle? No. Yes. She will be all this to you, and more. Have courage, my friend." "Monsieur Gamache, you are a true friend, one who stands by in the hour of need. Those dark clouds are passing away now, and the sky is clearing, with the promise of a fine day to-morrow. Good night, Monsieur, and thank you a thousand times." "Wait, Jean. You have not spoken of the house." "The house? Oh, I had forgotten that. It is not of much consequence, by comparison. Indeed, I am almost glad that it is gone. Yet it is a great loss, a calamity." "And the debt, Jean!" "The debt. Yes, that is still worse. Bonhomme Laroche will try to take the farm, I fear--the old place where we have lived for so many years. For myself I should not care, but for the good mother it would be terrible." "You are right, Jean. To the young such a calamity is nothing. They have good health, the strong arm, the cheerful spirit, the high courage, the undaunted will. Nothing can subdue them. They are downcast, for a time; but presently they rise again, stronger than ever, more eager for the struggle, the test of manhood. But with the old it is different. They have not the vigour, the joy of living any more; nor the elasticity of spirit that gives the rebound, the recovery. They fall, and remain on the ground; they are injured, and the wound does not heal; they are sick, and do not recover. No, Jean, the old are afflicted with an incurable disease. The joy of battle is not for them. For them sleep and rest--the sleep of death, the rest of the grave. Jean, the good mother must not leave the old home." "No, Monsieur Gamache; it must not be. I will see to that." "But how, Jean?" "Oh, Monsieur, I will find a way, you may be sure. For one thing, Bonhomme the miser cannot claim his principal--that will not be due for two years. He can demand only the interest, a trifling sum, after all. Meanwhile the farm is there, and I shall have the mail contract and some tourists. In winter there will be lumbering or the trapping of which you speak. When I think of silver foxes at a thousand dollars apiece I see the debt vanish in a single season. Oh, we are not ready to die yet, by any means. A man of my size and strength can surely earn a living for the good mother and pay the debt off as well. Do not fear, Monsieur Gamache."