She will admit you. But what will you do with her, Dame Dodier? Is
she doomed? Could you not be gentle with her, dame?"
There was a fall in the voice of Mere Malheur,--an intonation partly
due to fear of consequences, partly to a fibre of pity which--dry
and disused--something in the look of Caroline had stirred like a
dead leaf quivering in the wind.
"Tut! has she melted your old dry heart to pity, Mere Malheur! Ha,
ha! who would have thought that! and yet I remember she made a soft
fool of me for a minute in the wood of St. Valier!" La Corriveau
spoke in a hard tone, as if in reproving Mere Malheur she was also
reproving herself.
"She is unlike any other woman I ever saw," replied the crone,
ashamed of her unwonted sympathy. "The devil is clean out of her
as he is out of a church."
"You are a fool, Mere Malheur! Out of a church, quotha!" and La
Corriveau laughed a loud laugh; "why I go to church myself, and
whisper my prayers backwards to keep on terms with the devil, who
stands nodding behind the altar to every one of my petitions,--that
is more than some people get in return for their prayers," added
she.
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