"Certainly not; the good confessor would not have allowed me to do so; it
would have been a great sin."

"Did you tell your confessor the state you were in?"

"No, but he must have guessed it. He is a good old man, who doubtless
prayed to God for me, and my meeting you was, perhaps, the answer to his
prayers."

I was deeply moved, and for a quarter of an hour I was silent, and
absorbed in my thoughts. I saw that this interesting girl's misfortune
proceeded from her ignorance, her candour, her perfect innocence, and a
foolish feeling of pity, which made her grant this monster of lubricity a
thing of which she thought little because she had never been in love. She
was religious, but from mere habit and not from reflection, and her
religion was consequently very weak. She abhorred sin, because she was
obliged to purge herself of it by confession under pain of everlasting
damnation, and she did not want to be damned. She had plenty of natural
common sense, little wit, for the cultivation of which she had no
opportunities, and she was in a state of ignorance only pardonable in a
nun. On weighing these facts I foresaw that I should find it a difficult
task to gain those favours which she had granted to Coudert; her
repentance had been too bitter for her to expose herself to the same
danger over again.

The peasant woman returned, laid the table for two, and brought us our
supper. Everything was new--napkins, plates, glasses, spoons, knives,
etc., and everything was exquisitely clean. The wines were excellent, and
the dishes delightful in their simplicity. We had roast game, fish,
cheese with cream, and very good fruit. I spent an hour and a half at