Now, to quiet your mind—for you must be as shocked as I am at all these horrors—we will speak, if you please, of our friend Jean‐Louis. On the afternoon of the day which proved the last for the innocent Barbette, Jeannet, knowing that the wood‐cutters would be dismissed, and that consequently he would have some leisure time, went off to the Luguets’ to have a little consoling conversation with good Solange. He kept no secrets from her, and expected great relief in recounting faithfully all that had happened; but, on entering, he instantly perceived something new had occurred in the house. The men were out at work; Mme. Luguet was seated by the fire, weeping bitterly; and Solange, sitting on a stool at her feet, was speaking to her in an angelic voice of her desire to enter a convent. Jeannet discreetly wished to withdraw. “Don’t go,” said Solange to him; “isn’t it so, mother? Jeannet will not disturb us?” “No, dear; on the contrary, my child, I am happy to see you, Jean‐Louis. Is it true that you will be free to accompany Solange to Paris?” “Alas! Mme. Luguet,” replied Jeannet, “why should I not be free, having neither family nor friends, save only you and yours? The only roof that sheltered me from infancy is henceforward forbidden to me, without counting that, before many hours, the only thing that I can call my own—on condition that God leaves it to me—and that is my life, may be taken also.” “What has happened?” asked Solange. “You speak in a quiet, serious tone that frightens me.” “I have done my duty, dear Solange, and often in this world, after performing an act of conscience and justice, any consequence may be expected.” And he related that, having discovered the criminal dealings of Isidore with the brigands of _La Martine_, he had been obliged to threaten the future husband of Jeannette, and give him warning that he must leave the country. “But,” cried Solange, “that is just what I hoped; this fortunate event divine Providence has allowed, that Jeannette might be saved. Rejoice, then, Jeannet, instead of indulging in such gloomy ideas.” “You are very kind to think so,” replied Jean‐Louis sadly; “but I, Solange, see things differently. Jeannette, already so irritated, will not pardon me for saving her at the expense of Isidore, who is not the man to let himself be crushed like a wolf caught in a snare. Much will be said against me; I will be rashly judged, and less than ever will I have the right to present myself at Muiceron. No, no; from that dear spot I am for ever separated. I have been already accused of jealousy; shall I expose myself to Jeannette’s reproaches that I have denounced Isidore to prevent her marriage?” “I acknowledge,” said Solange, “that your reflections are just. The truth will one day be known, but it will take time; I see it as well as you.”