“Well,” said Francine, “since nothing escapes you, you must admit, Marie, that your conduct would excite the curiosity of a saint. Yesterday without a penny, to-day your hands are full of gold; at Mortagne they give you the mail-coach which was pillaged and the driver killed, with government troops to protect you, and you are followed by a man whom I regard as your evil genius.” “Who? Corentin?” said the young lady, accenting the words by two inflections of her voice expressive of contempt, a sentiment which appeared in the gesture with which she waved her hand towards the rider. “Listen, Francine,” she said. “Do you remember Patriot, the monkey I taught to imitate Danton?” “Yes, mademoiselle.” “Well, were you afraid of him?” “He was chained.” “And Corentin is muzzled, my dear.” “We used to play with Patriot by the hour,” said Francine,--“I know that; but he always ended by serving us some bad trick.” So saying, Francine threw herself hastily back close to her mistress, whose hands she caught and kissed in a coaxing way; saying in a tone of deep affection: “You know what I mean, Marie, but you will not answer me. How can you, after all that sadness which did so grieve me--oh, indeed it grieved me!--how can you, in twenty-four hours, change about and become so gay? you, who talked of suicide! Why have you changed? I have a right to ask these questions of your soul--it is mine, my claim to it is before that of others, for you will never be better loved than you are by me. Speak, mademoiselle.” “Why, Francine, don’t you see all around you the secret of my good spirits? Look at the yellowing tufts of those distant tree-tops; not one is like another. As we look at them from this distance don’t they seem like an old bit of tapestry? See the hedges from behind which the Chouans may spring upon us at any moment. When I look at that gorse I fancy I can see the muzzles of their guns. Every time the road is shady under the trees I fancy I shall hear firing, and then my heart beats and a new sensation comes over me. It is neither the shuddering of fear nor an emotion of pleasure; no, it is better than either, it is the stirring of everything within me--it is life! Why shouldn’t I be gay when a little excitement is dropped into my monotonous existence?” “Ah! you are telling me nothing, cruel girl! Holy Virgin!” added Francine, raising her eyes in distress to heaven; “to whom will she confess herself if she denies the truth to me?” “Francine,” said the lady, in a grave tone, “I can’t explain to you my present enterprise; it is horrible.” “Why do wrong when you know it to be wrong?” “How can I help it? I catch myself thinking as if I were fifty, and acting as if I were still fifteen. You have always been my better self, my poor Francine, but in this affair I must stifle conscience. And,” she added after a pause, “I cannot. Therefore, how can you expect me to take a confessor as stern as you?” and she patted the girl’s hand.