It might be thought that he must have felt some embarrassment
the first time that he met Kermelle and his daughter. But such was not
the case. He went to the manor at an hour when he knew that he would
find Kermelle and his daughter at home, and addressing himself to the
latter he said: 'You have been guilty of a great sin, not so much by
your folly, for which God will forgive you, but in allowing one of
the best of women to be sent to gaol. An innocent woman has, by your
misconduct, been treated for several days as a thief, and carried off
to prison by gendarmes in the sight of the whole parish. You owe her
some sort of reparation. On Sunday, the clerk's wife will be seated as
usual in the last row, near the church-door; at the Belief, you will
go and fetch her and lead her by the hand to your seat of honour,
which she is better worthy to occupy than you are."
The poor creature did mechanically what she was bid, and she had
ceased to be a sentient being. From this time forth, little was ever
seen of the flax-crusher and his family. The manor had become, as it
were, a tomb, from which issued no sign of life.
The clerk's wife was the first to die. The emotion had been too
much for this simple soul. She had never doubted the goodness of
Providence, but the whole business had upset her, and she gradually
grew weaker. She was a saintly woman, with the most exquisite
sentiment of devotion for the Church. This would scarcely be
understood now in Paris, where the church, as a building, goes for so
little.
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