Martin Delette was my schoolmate at Pfalsbourg, in the old days. A fine,
studious lad he was, too. He took orders and went to the north where he
lived for many years a quiet country cure. He had a niece, a charming
girl, who is not now more than twenty or one-and twenty. She was an
orphan, and lived with him, going to a convent to school and returning
at vacations. She was not a bad girl, but a trifle wayward and easily
led. She gave the Sisters much anxiety. Last spring she barely escaped
compromising the house by an escapade with a young _miserable_ of the
town named Banin."
"I know your story," said Albert, with an air which hinted that this
was a sufficient reason why the rest should not hear it. "Banin is in
prison."
Elysee proceeded: "The girl was reprimanded. Next week she disappeared.
To one of her companions she had confided a great desire to see Paris.
So good Father Delette was summoned, and, after a talk with the
Superioress, started post-haste for the capital. He found no signs
either of poor Renee or of Banin, who had also disappeared. The Cure was
nearly heart-broken. Each day, they told me, added a year to his
appearance. He did not cease to importune the police chiefs and to haunt
the public places for a glimpse of his niece's face. But the summer
came, and no Renee. The Cure began to cough and grow weak.
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