She was the wife of the Seigneur, and she was the daughter of the smithy-man too.

She sat in the smithy-man's doorway with her hand in his; and she sat at the Manor table with its silver glitter, and its antique garnishings, with as real an unconsciousness.
Her influence seemed to pierce far and wide.

The Cure and the Avocat adored her; and the proudest, happiest moment of their lives was when they sat at the Manor table, or, in the sombre drawing-room, watched her give it light and grace and charm, and fill their hearts with the piercing delight of her song.

So her life had gone on; to the outward world serene and happy, full of simplicity, charity, and good works.
What it was in reality no one could know, not even herself.

Since the day when Louis had tried to kill George Fournel, life had been a different thing for them both.