In the evening after dinner I found her sitting on the old bench under the big linden tree. M. le Cure was sitting next to her with his back against the tree. They looked serious. I thought they were talking about Colette, and I remained standing some distance from them. Sister Marie-Aimee was saying, as though she were answering a question, "Yes, when I was fifteen." M. le Cure said, "You had no vocation at fifteen." I didn't hear what Sister Marie-Aimee answered, but M. le Cure went on, "Or, rather, at fifteen you had every possible vocation. A kind word, or a little indifference would be enough to change your whole life." He said nothing for a moment, and then, in a lower tone, he said, "Your parents were very much to blame." Sister Marie-Aimee answered, "I regret nothing." They remained for a long time without saying a word. Then Sister Marie-Aimee raised one finger as though she were impressing something on him, and said, "Everywhere, in spite of all and always." M. le Cure stretched his hand out a little way, laughed, and repeated, "Everywhere, in spite of all and always." The goodnight bell sounded all of a sudden, and M. le Cure went off, down the avenue of linden trees. For a long time afterwards I used to repeat the words I had heard them say, but I could never fit them in to poor Colette's story. Colette had given up all hopes of a miracle to take her away, and yet she could not make up her mind to remain. When she saw all the girls of her own age go one by one, she began to rebel. She would not go to confession anymore, and she would not take holy communion. She used to go to mass because she sang there, and she was fond of music. I often stopped with her and consoled her. She explained to me that marriage meant love.