“If you mean Louise Bibelot,” the young lady responded, “she is my foster-sister. Her mother nursed me. Louise bears papers from the curé of her parish to strangers, but she should hardly need such passports to the head of our house.” “In brief, daughter,” said Laval, passing to the point, “what brings you to this savage country--fit enough to be the arena of young men, or of those who lay self upon the altar of the Church, but most unfit for females tenderly brought up to enjoy the pleasures of the world?” “Has my bringing-up been so tender, monseigneur? I have passed nearly all my years an orphan in a convent.” “But what brings you to New France?” “I came to appeal against your successor in the estates.” “My successor in the estates has nothing to do with you.” “He has to marry me, monseigneur.” “Well, and has he not made a suitable marriage for you?” Her face burned hotly. “I do not wish him to make any marriage for me. I refused all the suitors he selected, and that is what determined him to marry me to the last one.” “You are deeply prejudiced against marriage?” “Yes, monseigneur.” “Against any marriage?” “Yes, monseigneur.” “This must be why you come with the king’s girls to the marriage market.” Her face burned in deeper flames. “The court of Louis,” pursued Laval, “would furnish a better mate for you than any wild coureur de bois on the St. Lawrence.” “I have not come to any marriage market,” she stammered. “You are in the marriage market, Mademoiselle Laval. His Majesty, in his care for New France, sends out these girls to mate with soldiers and peasants here. It is good, and will confirm the true faith upon the soil. What I cannot understand is your presence among them.” Her face sank upon her breast. “I did not know what to do.” “So, being at a loss, you took shipping to the ends of the earth?” “Other women of good families have come out here.” “As holy missionaries: as good women should come. Do you intend leading such a life of self-sacrifice? Is that your purpose?” said Laval, penetrating her with his glance. Her angelic beauty, drowned in red shame, could not move him. “Rash” and “forward” were the terms to be applied to her. She had no defense except the murmur: “I thought of devoting myself to a holy life. Everybody was then willing to help me escape the marriage.” “Were there, then, no convents in France able to bound your zeal? Did you feel pushed to make this perilous voyage and to take up the hard life of saintly women here?” [Illustration: “You are deeply prejudiced against marriage?”] “I am myself a Laval-Montmorency,” said mademoiselle, rearing her neck in her last stronghold. “The Bishop of Petræa[1] may not have inherited all the heroism of the present generation.” He smiled slowly; his mouth was not facile at relaxing. “In your convent they failed to curb the tongue. This step that you have taken is, I fear, a very rash one, my daughter.”