For although M. de Vieuville, President of the Court which tried Bontet, and father of Alfred de Vieuville, that friend of the duke’s who was to have acted at the duel, complimented me on the candor with which I gave my evidence, yet he did not press me beyond what was strictly necessary to bring home to the prisoners the crimes of murder and attempted robbery with which they were charged.  Not till I knew the Judge, having been introduced to him by his son, did he ask me further of the matter; and then, sitting on the lawn of his country-house, I told him the whole story, as it has been set down in this narrative, saving only sundry matters which had passed between the duchess and myself on the one hand, and between Marie Delhasse and myself on the other.  Yet I do not think that my reticence availed me much against an acumen trained and developed by dialectic struggles with generations of criminals.  For the first question which M. de Vieuville put to me was this: 

“And what of the girl, Mr. Aycon?  She has suffered indeed for the sins of others.”

But young Alfred, who was standing by, laid a hand on his father’s shoulder and said with a laugh: 

“Father, when Mr. Aycon leaves us tomorrow, it is to visit the convent at Avranches.”  And the old man held out his hand to me, saying: 

“You do well.”

To the convent at Avranches then I went one bright morning in the spring of the next year; and again I walked with the stately old lady in the little burial ground.  Yet she was a little less stately, and I thought that there was what the profane might call a twinkle in her eye, as she deplored Marie’s disinclination to become a permanent inmate of the establishment over which she presided.  And on her lips came an indubitable smile when I leaped back from her in horror at the thought.

“There would be none here to throw her troubles in her teeth,” pursued the Mother Superior, smiling still.  “None to remind her of her mother’s shame; none to lay snares for her; none to remind her of the beauty which has brought so much woe on her; no men to disturb her life with their angry conflicting passions.  Does not the picture attract you, Mr. Aycon?”

“As a picture,” said I, “it is almost perfect.  There is but one blemish in it.”

“A blemish?  I do not perceive it.”

“Why, madame, I cannot find anywhere in your canvas the figure of myself.”

With a laugh she turned away and passed through the arched gateway.  And I saw my friend, the little nun who had first opened the door to me when I came seeking the duchess, pass by and pause a moment to look at me.  Then I was left alone till Marie came to me through the gateway:  and I sprang up to meet her.