As for the Ragauds, father and mother, they never mentioned him either, but for another reason. Ignorant that Jeannette had turned the poor boy out of the house, they were still firmly convinced of his jealousy; and as they believed him to be employed on some farm in the neighborhood, they were very much incensed at his prolonged absence, which, in view of the present circumstances, appeared the act of an ungrateful and hard heart. M. le Curé, who knew all, and had Solange’s letter in his pocket, designedly prolonged the grief of Jeannette and the mistake of the Ragauds, in order that the lesson might be duly profitable to all. “You see,” said he, “everything has happened as I foresaw. Fearing to displease you, I did not invite any one to our little entertainment; but understand well, my children, if I had had fifty vacant places at my table, I would have had great difficulty in choosing my guests; so many would have desired the pleasure of dining with you, I would have been afraid of exciting jealousy.” “M. le Curé,” said Ragaud, “I thank you, and hope that your kindness was not mistaken. I speak the truth when I say that, but for you, I would have died rather than ever again have shown my face in public.” “Well, now that it is all over, let us talk of our friends,” replied the _curé_. “Are you not curious to hear some news?” No one replied; the tender chord was again touched. “I do not conceal the fact,” said Ragaud, “that more than one of those so‐ called _friends_ have pained us by their neglect.” “Let us be just,” said the _curé_; “do you forget that your house was so tightly closed no one dared knock at the door? I even hesitated to visit you, and yet you cannot doubt my affection for you. Why, then, should others have been bolder?” “Oh!” said Ragaud, “any one that wished could easily have found his way in. You had no difficulty, dear monsieur.” “That I grant, but I was in the country. Do you know how many of your best friends are here yet? In the first place, the whole of the château are in Paris.” “Yes, I know it,” said Jeanne. “My godmother did not bid me good‐by.” “She was very sick, my daughter; you must not ill‐judge her.” “And Michou?” asked Ragaud. “Michou was at Mass, directly behind you,” said the _curé_; “and if he did not show himself, it was from delicacy; but he is not far off, and will come at the first signal.” “And Solange?” asked Jeanne, in such a low tone she scarcely could be heard. That was the name the _curé_ was waiting for. He looked at Jeanne in a serious manner. “Solange,” said he, “left also on that unfortunate day, and knew nothing of it. She, Jeanne Ragaud, was your most faithful friend, and is so still. You have calumniated her, my daughter. I know it; but I hope you have sincerely repented; above all, when you hear that she is now at the novitiate of the Sisters of Charity.” “Ah! is it possible?” cried she, clasping her hands. “Dear Solange! how unjust I have been to her!”