My uncle, Félix Faure, gave her a chair, and asked her to sit down, and then inquired in a kindly way about her husband, a _savant_, with whom my uncle collaborated sometimes for his book, “The Life of St. Louis.” Mamma had merely glanced across the room without raising her head, for Madame Guérard did not prefer my sister to me. “Well, as we have come here on account of this child,” said my godfather, looking at his watch, “we must begin and discuss what is to be done with her.” I began to tremble, and drew closer to _mon petit Dame_ (as I had always called Madame Guérard from my infancy) and to Mlle. de Brabender. They each took my hand by way of encouraging me. “Yes,” continued M. Meydieu, with a laugh; “it appears you want to be a nun.” “Ah, indeed,” said the Duc de Morny to Aunt Rosine. “Sh!” she retorted, with a laugh. Mamma sighed, and held her wools up close to her eyes to match them. “You have to be rich, though, to enter a convent,” grunted the Hâvre notary, “and you have not a sou.” I leaned towards Mlle. de Brabender and whispered, “I have the money that papa left.” The horrid man overheard. “Your father left some money to get you married,” he said. “Well, then, I’ll marry the _bon Dieu_,” I answered, and my voice was quite resolute now. I turned very red, and for the second time in my life I felt a desire and a strong inclination to fight for myself. I had no more fear, as every one had gone too far and provoked me too much. I slipped away from my two kind friends, and advanced towards the other group. “I will be a nun, I will!” I exclaimed. “I know that papa left me some money so that I should be married, and I know that the nuns marry the Saviour. Mamma says she does not care, it is all the same to her, so that it won’t be vexing her at all, and they love me better at the convent than you do here!” “My dear child,” said my uncle, drawing me towards him, “your religious vocation appears to me to be more a wish to love——” “And to be loved,” murmured Madame Guérard in a very low voice. Every one glanced at mamma, who shrugged her shoulders lightly. It seemed to me as though the glance they all gave her was a reproachful one, and I felt a pang of remorse at once. I went across to her, and, throwing my arms round her neck, said: “You don’t mind my being a nun, do you? It won’t make you unhappy, will it?” Mamma stroked my hair, of which she was very proud. “Yes, it would make me unhappy. You know very well that, after your sister, I love you better than any one else in the world.”