They seemed both to be about sixty years of age. They had lived out of
the world for forty years, and had grown so accustomed to the life of
the convent that they could scarcely imagine any other. To them, as to
plants kept in a hot-house, a change of air meant death. And so, when
the grating was broken down one morning, they knew with a shudder that
they were free. The effect produced by the Revolution upon their
simple souls is easy to imagine; it produced a temporary imbecility
not natural to them. They could not bring the ideas learned in the
convent into harmony with life and its difficulties; they could not
even understand their own position. They were like children whom
mothers have always cared for, deserted by their maternal providence.
And as a child cries, they betook themselves to prayer. Now, in the
presence of imminent danger, they were mute and passive, knowing no
defence save Christian resignation.

The man at the door, taking silence for consent, presented himself,
and the women shuddered. This was the prowler that had been making
inquiries about them for some time past. But they looked at him with
frightened curiosity, much as shy children stare silently at a
stranger; and neither of them moved.

The newcomer was a tall, burly man. Nothing in his behavior, bearing,
or expression suggested malignity as, following the example set by the
nuns, he stood motionless, while his eyes traveled round the room.

Two straw mats laid upon planks did duty as beds. On the one table,
placed in the middle of the room, stood a brass candlestick, several
plates, three knives, and a round loaf. A small fire burned in the
grate. A few bits of wood in a heap in a corner bore further witness
to the poverty of the recluses. You had only to look at the coating of