Under ordinary circumstances, I should never have been left alone with my intended bridegroom till after the ceremony; but my aunt had a great opinion of the discretion and goodness of Monsieur de Luynes, which indeed he well deserved. She also trusted a good deal, I fancy, to his powers of persuasion, for she allowed him more than once to remain tête-à-tête with me for an hour or two at a time in the little salon, while she entertained her visitors or gave audience to the tradespeople who were busied with my wedding outfit. On one of these occasions I took a desperate resolution and opened to Monsieur de Luynes my whole heart. Monsieur tried hard to shake me, promising me every sort of good, and even going so far as to hint that I should, in the course of nature, outlive him; and then, being a widow, I could go where I liked and do as I pleased. Finding, however, that even this agreeable prospect failed to move me, and that I was settled in my resolution, after two or three interviews, he bade me farewell with much kindness, and going to my uncle formally retracted his suit, saying that he would never wed an unwilling bride. My aunt's anger was loud and voluble; my uncle's more silent and much more terrible. He said little except to bid me retire to my room. Here I remained till evening, without notice of any kind. That night my lodging was changed to a bare attic at the top of the house, lighted only by a window in the roof, and furnished with a pallet bed, a straw chair, and a crucifix, with its vessel of holy water underneath. Into this cell, I was locked by my uncle's own hands, and here I remained prisoner for a fortnight, seeing nobody but my aunt's women, who once a day brought me a meagre supply of coarse food. I had but one companion—an ugly gray cat, which lived in the neighboring garret, and made her way to my cell through a hole in the wainscot, attracted, I suppose, by the smell of my soup. She shared my meals by day and my bed at night, and, I doubt not, sincerely regretted my departure. I have always loved and patronized ugly gray cats for her sake. I was happier in this garret than I had been before in a long time. I had lived absolutely without prayer ever since my illness, for my repetitions of the rosary might as well have been repetitions of "Cruel Barbara Allen," for all the devotion there had been in them. But somehow my firm decision not to marry any one but my first love had brought help and comfort to me. It had been a step in the right direction.