"It is true, madame, I was stupid enough to dream of happiness and the joys of family affection; criminal enough to find this happiness in mutual love and hope to become, like many others, a devoted wife and tender mother; it was, as you have told me, an offence to Heaven. I repent my impious vows, I comprehend all that is odious in them; you must pardon me, madame, for having been wicked and silly to such a degree." "It is not necessary to exaggerate, my dear daughter," said Sister Prudence, struck with the slightly ironical accent with which Dolores had uttered these last words. "But," added she, observing the direction taken by the young girl, "what is the good of returning to this walk? It will soon be the hour for supper; come, my dear daughter, let us go back to the house." "Oh, madame, do you not perceive that sweet odour on this side of the grove?" "Those are a few clusters of mignonette. But come, it is getting cool; I am not sixteen like you, my dear daughter, and I am afraid of catching cold." "Just one moment, please, that I may gather a few of these flowers." "Go on, then, you must do everything you wish, my dear daughter; stop, the night is clear enough for you to see this mignonette ten steps away; go and gather a few sprigs and return." Dolores, letting go the arm of the mother superior, went rapidly toward the clusters of flowers. At this moment half-past seven o'clock sounded. "Half-past seven," murmured Dolores, trembling and turning her ear to listen, "he is there, he will come!" "My dear daughter, it is the hour for supper," said the mother superior, walking on ahead of the canon's niece. "Stop, do you not hear the clock? Quick! quick! come, it will take ten minutes to reach the house, for we are at the bottom of the garden." "Here I am, madame," replied the young girl, running before the mother superior, who said to her, with affected sweetness: "Oh, you foolish little thing, you run like a frightened fawn." Suddenly Dolores shrieked, and fell on her knees. "Great God!" cried Sister Prudence, running up to her, "what is the matter, dear daughter? Why did you scream? What are you on your knees for?" "Ah, madame!" "But what is it?" "What pain!" "Where?" "In my foot, madame, I have sprained my ankle. Oh, how I suffer! My God, how I suffer!" "Try to get up, my dear child," said the mother, approaching Dolores with a vague distrust, for this sprain seemed to her quite unnatural. "Oh, impossible, madame, I cannot make a movement." "But try, at least." "I wish I could." And the young girl made a show of wishing to stand up, but she fell again on her knees, with a shriek that could be heard on the other side of the garden wall. Then Dolores said, with a groan: