He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. She turned towards the door, and had taken a pace towards it when it was flung open. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he had greeted her, entering the little private parlour where, Martha being at prayer in their room, she sat alone, reading over and over the letter Mother Abbess had given her and revolving plans in her head. Wear one on the stage on the following day. He had a narrow escape, however; for, passing within an inch of him, the bullet burried itself deeply in the wall. He accepted the glass of wine, and bowed. .
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