Lionel and the guide, one after the other, left the valley of Laragne and proceeded towards the deeper mountains.
The road quickly changed from a deeply rutted dirt path to a narrow, winding bridle path, just wide enough for one horse, snaking up the steep mountainside.
On one side was a dense forest of fir and beech trees, while on the other was a dizzying deep valley, from which the roar of a rushing stream could be heard.
Fabian walked ahead, leading the horse, occasionally stopping to point somewhere and tell Lionel,
"See that clearing in the woods? Twenty years ago, a family lived there. Then their son went to Lyon to become a soldier and never came back, and the old couple didn't survive the last winter."
When Lionel asked about the Lourdes Convent, Fabian's talkativeness opened up a bit, but his tone was mixed with pious reverence and realistic complaints.
"The convent, oh, I heard it's several centuries old. The nuns inside, well, how should I put it, their hearts are good, but they're as stubborn as the stones in the mountains."
"They'll also give a little charity to families who are truly struggling, a few pieces of black bread, or some herbs... but the rules they set are also very strict."
"The year before last, my daughter accidentally entered what they considered 'sacred ground' and was severely reprimanded, told she had blasphemed, and it scared her sick for several days."
"They always believe the filth of the outside world will defile their purity. But without things from outside the mountains, their place wouldn't be able to sustain itself either."
Amidst the chattering, the two walked for about three hours, passing through a particularly dense fir forest, when suddenly the view opened up before them.
A complex of buildings, constructed against a cliff, appeared on a plateau at the end of the valley—that was the Lourdes Convent.
It was built from dark grey local rock, its walls deep in color, covered with thick moss and lichen; it was so ancient and massive that time seemed to have frozen there.
As a man, Lionel was not permitted to enter the main building.
He was led by an elderly nun, solemn-faced and silent, to a solitary stone house outside the convent's high walls.
The small house was extremely simple, with only a rough wooden table and two long benches; the air was filled with a faint smell of mildew and the lingering scent of incense.
Fabian tied up the horse and tactfully waited outside.
After a good half hour, the door was pushed open, and Mother Marcella entered.
She was very old, yet her back was ramrod straight; her face was covered with knife-cut, axe-hewn wrinkles, and her lips were tightly pursed, thin as blades.
Her voice was icy:
"You're from Montiel? Inquiring about Sister Rochas?"
Lionel rose and bowed politely:
"Yes, Mother. I am Lionel Sorel, a friend of Alice Rochas. I only recently returned to Laragne from Paris!"
Mother Marcella sneered:
"I've heard of you... even Pierre, who delivers the grain, talks about how imposing you are..."
Lionel bowed slightly:
"That's only because there's truly nothing new happening here... I wanted to ask, Alice..."
Mother Marcella's voice suddenly became sharp:
"She escaped! She abandoned her vows to God, betrayed the sanctuary of this holy place! This is a grave sin! She must receive the punishment she deserves!"
Lionel patiently waited for her to finish, then took out the documents Etienne Rochas had given him from his pocket:
"Mother, I understand your position. But I have come with the full authorization of Alice's parents, Etienne and Marie Rochas."
He gently pushed the documents across the table:
"They entrusted me with finding their missing daughter in Paris. As parents, their greatest desire now is to know if their daughter is safe, not to pursue whether she violated some... vow she may not have fully understood at her age then."
Mother Marcella glanced at the documents, her tone becoming even more severe:
"Parental feelings cannot supersede sacred vows! She chose to serve God, and she must..."
"Mother,"
Lionel interrupted her, his tone still polite.
"Allow me to remind you that the current public opinion in Paris is not very favorable towards the Church. I don't know if you've heard about that... unfortunate exorcism ritual at Notre Dame and its aftermath?"
Mother Marcella's expression stiffened slightly; she was the only one in the entire convent with the authority to read newspapers and books other than scriptures.
Lionel saw her reaction, smiled faintly, and lowered his voice:
"The Church is currently under intense scrutiny; any minor flaw could be magnified infinitely.
Just imagine if Parisian newspapers, such as Le Figaro or Le Petit Journal, got hold of a story like this—a country girl, sent by her parents to a remote mountain convent, overwhelmed and fled when sent to Paris for further studies, with no news and her fate unknown..."
He paused, his tone becoming slower:
"What would people think?
They would ask, what did she experience in the convent that made her choose to flee?
What could she have encountered that led to such a complete disappearance?
Did she die abroad, frozen on the streets?
Or... did she fall into depravity, struggling in some dark corner of Paris?"
Mother Marcella's gaze began to lose focus.
Lionel leaned forward:
"Regardless of the outcome, whom would public opinion target?
Would it blame the helpless girl?
Or condemn the... convent... that failed to give her proper care, or even pushed her to such desperation?"
Although Mother Marcella was cornered by Lionel's barrage of questions, as the Mother Superior who had held absolute authority over the convent for years, she was not so easily swayed.
Her response was sharp and direct:
"Monsieur Sorel, are you threatening me?
Or are you threatening the Order of Saint Martha?
Or, do you intend to challenge the very foundation of faith in France?"
Lionel suddenly relaxed, leaning back into his chair with a friendly smile:
"Mother, as a minor writer, I know a few friends in the Parisian press who might be able to do me a small favor.
If the Alice-Clémence Rochas I 'find' is a cold corpse, or... disfigured by life's hardships...
I would find it very difficult to explain to her parents, and equally difficult to resist the urge to make everything I know public.
After all, someone has to speak out for such a tragedy, don't they?"
After a moment's pause, Lionel offered a rather tempting solution:
"Conversely, if this matter could be concluded in a... more gentle, less conspicuous manner.
For example, if you were to write a letter stating that after a long and fruitless search, it is presumed she may have unfortunately passed away due to an accident, and suggest that the Order of Saint Martha, out of mercy and understanding, cease their pursuit and allow her soul to rest in peace.
Then, all potential risks would dissipate. For the convent, for the order, for everyone, this is the safest choice.
After all, what the Church needs now is peace and decency, not another scandal, wouldn't you agree?"
The stone house fell into a long silence, broken only by the faint sound of Mother Marcella fingering her rosary beads.
Lionel did not press her, merely lowering his head and counting the wood grain on the table.
After a long while, Mother Marcella very slowly stood up:
"Wait here."
With that, she turned and returned to the convent.
A quarter of an hour later, she reappeared with a letter sealed with wax, hastily handing it to Lionel as if it were something unclean.
Her voice was weary and hollow:
"Take it. May this... be as you wish."
Lionel put the letter into his inner pocket and nodded slightly:
"Thank you for your understanding, Mother. May the Lord grant you peace."
He turned and walked out of the stone house, the afternoon sun making him squint slightly.
Fabian was dozing against a rock, and the horse was quietly grazing nearby.
As he mounted his horse and took one last look back at the ancient, dark grey convent, he keenly noticed that behind those small windows, several pairs of young, curious eyes seemed to be secretly watching him, the "uninvited guest."
Those gazes flickered and quickly vanished behind the dark window openings.
A complex emotion welled up in Lionel's heart: the relief of success, and also an unspeakable heaviness.
Finally, he could only gently shake the reins, urging the horse to begin the journey home.
(End of Chapter)
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