“From the fate which overtakes nearly all the girls of her age in these parts. Since I have taught her cleanliness she is much less ugly than she was; in fact, there is something odd and wild about her which attracts men. She is so changed that you would hardly recognize her. The son of that infamous innkeeper of the Grand-I-Vert, Nicolas, the worst fellow in the whole district, wants her; he hunts her like game. Though I can’t believe that Monsieur Rigou, who changes his servant-girls every year or two is persecuting such a little fright, it is quite certain that Nicolas Tonsard is. Justin told me so. It would be a dreadful fate, for the people of this valley actually live like beasts; but Justin and our two servants and I watch her carefully. Therefore don’t be uneasy, madame; she never goes out alone except in broad daylight, and then only as far as the gate of Conches. If by chance she fell into an ambush, her feeling for Justin would give her strength and wit to escape; for all women who have a preference in their hearts can resist a man they hate.” “It was about her that I came,” said the countess, “and I little thought my visit could be so useful to you. That child, you know, can’t remain thirteen; and she will probably grow better-looking.” “Oh, madame,” replied Olympe, smiling, “I am quite sure of Justin. What a man! what a heart!--If you only knew what a depth of gratitude he feels for his general, to whom, he says, he owes his happiness. He is only too devoted; he would risk his life for him here, as he would on the field of battle, and he forgets sometimes that he will one day be father of a family.” “Ah! I once regretted losing you,” said the countess, with a glance that made Olympe blush; “but I regret it no longer, for I see you happy. What a sublime and noble thing is married love!” she added, speaking out the thought she had not dared express before the abbe. Virginie de Troisville dropped into a revery, and Madame Michaud kept silence. “Well, at least the girl is honest, is she not?” said the countess, as if waking from a dream. “As honest as I am myself, madame.” “Discreet?” “As the grave.” “Grateful?” “Ah! madame; she has moments of humility and gentleness towards me which seem to show an angelic nature. She will kiss my hands and say the most upsetting things. ‘Can we die of love?’ she asked me yesterday. ‘Why do you ask me that?’ I said. ‘I want to know if love is a disease.’” “Did she really say that?” “If I could remember her exact words I would tell you a great deal more,” replied Olympe; “she appears to know much more than I do.” “Do you think, my dear, that she could take your place in my service. I can’t do without an Olympe,” said the countess, smiling in a rather sad way.