He accepted her excuse that she had to visit a
sick friend. It would not have been so intolerable if he had suspected
her of deceit, and his reproaches would have hardened her heart. It was
his entire confidence which was so difficult to bear.
'Oh, if I could only make a clean breast of it all,' she cried.
The bell of Saint Sulpice was ringing for vespers. Margaret walked slowly
to the church, and sat down in the seats reserved in the transept for the
needy. She hoped that the music she must hear there would rest her soul,
and perhaps she might be able to pray. Of late she had not dared. There
was a pleasant darkness in the place, and its large simplicity was
soothing. In her exhaustion, she watched listlessly the people go to and
fro. Behind her was a priest in the confessional. A little peasant girl,
in a Breton _coiffe_, perhaps a maid-servant lately come from her native
village to the great capital, passed in and knelt down. Margaret could
hear her muttered words, and at intervals the deep voice of the priest.
In three minutes she tripped neatly away.
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