Jeanne at once abandoned her intention of entering the adjoining room.  Monsieur Rambaud always amazed her by his skill in turning a sheet of paper into all sorts of playthings.  Chickens, boats, bishops’ mitres, carts, and cages, were all evolved under his fingers.  That day, however, so tremulous were his hands that he was unable to perfect anything.  He lowered his head whenever the faintest sound came from the adjacent room.  Nevertheless, Jeanne took interest in watching him, and leaned on the table at his side.

“Now,” said she, “you must make a chicken to harness to the carriage.”

Meantime, within the bedroom, Abbe Jouve remained standing in the shadow thrown by the lamp-shade upon the floor.  Helene had sat down in her usual place in front of the round table; and, as on Tuesdays she refrained from ceremony with her friends, she had taken up her needlework, and, in the circular glare of light, only her white hands could be seen sewing a child’s cap.

“Jeanne gives you no further worry, does she?” asked the Abbe.

Helene shook her head before making a reply.

“Doctor Deberle seems quite satisfied,” said she.  “But the poor darling is still very nervous.  Yesterday I found her in her chair in a fainting fit.”

“She needs exercise,” resumed the priest.  “You stay indoors far too much; you should follow the example of other folks and go about more than you do.”

He ceased speaking, and silence followed.  He now, without doubt, had what he had been seeking,—­a suitable inlet for his discourse; but the moment for speaking came, and he was still communing with himself.  Taking a chair, he sat down at Helene’s side.

“Hearken to me, my dear child,” he began.  “For some time past I have wished to talk with you seriously.  The life you are leading here can entail no good results.  A convent existence such as yours is not consistent with your years; and this abandonment of worldly pleasures is as injurious to your child as it is to yourself.  You are risking many dangers—­dangers to health, ay, and other dangers, too.”

Helene raised her head with an expression of astonishment.  “What do you mean, my friend?” she asked.

“Dear me!  I know the world but little,” continued the priest, with some slight embarrassment, “yet I know very well that a woman incurs great risk when she remains without a protecting arm.  To speak frankly, you keep to your own company too much, and this seclusion in which you hide yourself is not healthful, believe me.  A day must come when you will suffer from it.”

“But I make no complaint; I am very happy as I am,” she exclaimed with spirit.

The old priest gently shook his large head.

“Yes, yes, that is all very well.  You feel completely happy.  I know all that.  Only, on the downhill path of a lonely, dreamy life, you never know where you are going.  Oh!  I understand you perfectly; you are incapable of doing any wrong.  But sooner or later you might lose your peace of mind.  Some morning, when it is too late, you will find that blank which you now leave in your life filled by some painful feeling not to be confessed.”