In the evening just as the soup was being brought to the table Monsieur Follenvie made his appearance again with the same message as before: “The Prussian officer sends to ask Mademoiselle Elizabeth Rousset if she had not changed her mind.”
“No, Monsieur,” Boule de Suif replied curtly.
At supper the coalition weakened. Loiseau put his foot in it three times. They all racked their brains for fresh instances to the point, and found none, when the Countess, possibly without premeditation and only from a vague desire to render homage to religion, interrogated the older of the two Sisters on the main incidents in the lives of the saints. Now, several of them had committed acts which would be counted crimes in our eyes, but the Church readily pardons such misdeeds when they are accomplished for the glory of God or the benefit of our neighbours. It was a powerful argument, and the Countess took advantage of it. Then by one of those tacit agreements, those veiled complaisances in which everyone who wears ecclesiastical habit excels, or perhaps simply from a happy want of intelligence, a helpful stupidity, the old nun brought formidable support to the conspiracy. They had imagined her timid; she proved herself bold, verbose, violent. She was not troubled by any of the shilly-shallyings of casuistry, her doctrine was like a bar of iron, her faith never wavered, her conscience knew no scruples. She considered Abraham’s sacrifice a very simple affair, for she herself would have instantly killed father or mother at an order from above, and nothing, she averred, could displease the Lord if the intention were commendable. The Countess, taking advantage of the sacred authority of her unexpected ally, drew her on to make an edifying paraphrase, as it were, on the well-known moral maxim: “The end justifies the means.
“Then, Sister,” she inquired, “you think God approves of every pathway that leads to Him, and pardons the deed if the motive be a pure one?”
“Who can doubt it, Madame? An action blamable in itself is often rendered meritorious by the impulse which inspires it.”
And she continued in the same strain, unravelling the intricacies of the will of the Almighty, predicting His decisions, making Him interest Himself in matters which, of a truth, did not concern Him at all.
All this was skillfully and discreetly wrapped up, but each word of the pious woman in the big white cap made a breach in the indignant resistance of the courtesan. The conversation then glancing off slightly, the woman of the pendent rosaries went on to speak of the religious houses of her Order, of her superior, of herself and her fragile little companion, her dear little Sister St. Nicephora. They had been summoned to Havre to nurse the hundreds of soldiers there down with smallpox. She described the condition of these poor wretches, gave details of their disease; and while they were thus stopped upon the road by the whim of this Prussian, many French soldiers might die whom perhaps they could have saved. That was her specialty—nursing soldiers. She had been in the Crimea, in Italy, in Austria; and relating her campaigns, she suddenly revealed herself as one of those Sisters of the fife and drum who seem made for following the camp, picking up the wounded in the thick of battle, and better than any officer for quelling with a word the great hulking undisciplined louts—a regular Sister Rataplan, her ravaged face all pitted with innumerable holes, calling up an image of the devastations of war.
No one spoke after her for fear of spoiling the excellent effect.
Immediately after dinner they hurried to their rooms, not to reappear till pretty late the next morning.
Luncheon passed off quietly. They allowed the seed sown yesterday time to grow and bear fruit.
In the afternoon the Countess proposed a walk, whereupon the Count, following the preconcerted arrangement, took Boule de Suif’s arm and fell behind with her a little. He adopted that familiar, paternal, somewhat contemptuous tone which elderly men affect towards such girls, calling her “my dear child,” treating her from the height of his social position and indisputable respectability.
He came to the point without further preamble. “So you prefer to keep us here exposed like yourself to all the violence which must inevitably follow a check to the Prussian arms, rather than consent to accord one of those favours you have so often dispensed in your time?”
Boule de Suif did not reply.
He then appealed to her kindness of heart, her reason, her sentiment. He knew how to remain “Monsieur le Comte,” yet showing himself at the same time chivalrous, flattering—in a word, altogether amiable. He exalted the sacrifice she would be making for them, touched upon their gratitude, and with a final flash of roguishness, “Besides, my dear, he may think himself lucky—he will not find many such pretty girls as you in his own country!”
Boule de Suif said nothing and rejoined the rest of the party.
When they returned, she went straight to her room and did not come down again. The anxiety was terrible. What was she going to do? How unspeakably mortifying if she still persisted in her refusal!
The dinner-hour arrived, they waited for her in vain. Monsieur Follenvie, entering presently, announced that Mademoiselle Rousset was indisposed, and that there was consequently no need to delay supper any longer. They all pricked up their ears. The Count approached the innkeeper with a whispered “All right?”
“Yes.”
For propriety’s sake he said nothing to his companions, but he made them a slight sign of the head. A great sigh of relief went up from every heart, every face lit up with joy.
“Saperlipopette!” cried Loiseau, “I will stand champagne if there is such a thing in this establishment!”
Madame Loiseau suffered a pang of anguish when the innkeeper returned with four bottles in his hands. Everybody suddenly turned communicative and cheerful, and their hearts overflowed with prurient delight. The Count seemed
