With my head bent, and my forehead resting on my hands, I sat amidst grouped tree-stems and branching brushwood. Whatever talk passed amongst my neighbours, I might hear, if I would; I was near enough; but for some time, there was scarce motive to attend. They gossiped about the dresses, the music, the illuminations, the fine night. I listened to hear them say, “It is calm weather for his voyage; the Antigua ” (his ship) “will sail prosperously.” No such remark fell; neither the Antigua , nor her course, nor her passenger were named.

Perhaps the light chat scarcely interested old Madame Walravens more than it did me; she appeared restless, turning her head now to this side, now that, looking through the trees, and among the crowd, as if expectant of an arrival and impatient of delay. “ Où sont-ils? Pourquoi ne viennent-ils? ” 239 I heard her mutter more than once; and at last, as if determined to have an answer to her question⁠—which hitherto none seemed to mind, she spoke aloud this phrase⁠—a phrase brief enough, simple enough, but it sent a shock through me⁠—“ Messieurs et mesdames ,” said she, “ où donc est Justine Marie? ” 240

“Justine Marie!” What was this? Justine Marie⁠—the dead nun⁠—where was she? Why, in her grave, Madame Walravens⁠—what can you want with her? You shall go to her, but she shall not come to you.