"Dona Rita brought her down from her mountains on purpose.She is asleep somewhere in this house, in one of the vacant rooms.She lets them, you know, at extortionate prices, that is, if people will pay them, for she is easily intimidated.You see, she has never seen such an enormous town before in her life, nor yet so many strange people.She has been keeping house for the uncle-priest in some mountain gorge for years and years.It's extraordinary he should have let her go.There is something mysterious there, some reason or other.It's either theology or Family.The saintly uncle in his wild parish would know nothing of any other reasons.She wears a rosary at her waist.Directly she had seen some real money she developed a love of it.If you stay with me long enough, and I hope you will (I really can't sleep), you will see her going out to mass at half-past six; but there is nothing remarkable in her; just a peasant woman of thirty-four or so.A rustic nun...."I may as well say at once that we didn't stay as long as that.It was not that morning that I saw for the first time Therese of the whispering lips and downcast eyes slipping out to an early mass from the house of iniquity into the early winter murk of the city of perdition, in a world steeped in sin.No.It was not on that morning that I saw Dona Rita's incredible sister with her brown, dry face, her gliding motion, and her really nun-like dress, with a black handkerchief enfolding her head tightly, with the two pointed ends hanging down her back.Yes, nun-like enough.And yet not altogether.People would have turned round after her if those dartings out to the half-past six mass hadn't been the only occasion on which she ventured into the impious streets.She was frightened of the streets, but in a particular way, not as if of a danger but as if of a contamination.Yet she didn't fly back to her mountains because at bottom she had an indomitable character, a peasant tenacity of purpose, predatory instincts....
No, we didn't remain long enough with Mr.Blunt to see even as much as her back glide out of the house on her prayerful errand.She was prayerful.She was terrible.Her one-idead peasant mind was as inaccessible as a closed iron safe.She was fatal...It's perfectly ridiculous to confess that they all seem fatal to me now;but writing to you like this in all sincerity I don't mind appearing ridiculous.I suppose fatality must be expressed, embodied, like other forces of this earth; and if so why not in such people as well as in other more glorious or more frightful figures?
We remained, however, long enough to let Mr.Blunt's half-hidden acrimony develop itself or prey on itself in further talk about the man Allegre and the girl Rita.Mr.Blunt, still addressing Mills with that story, passed on to what he called the second act, the disclosure, with, what he called, the characteristic Allegre impudence - which surpassed the impudence of kings, millionaires, or tramps, by many degrees - the revelation of Rita's existence to the world at large.It wasn't a very large world, but then it was most choicely composed.How is one to describe it shortly? In a sentence it was the world that rides in the morning in the Bois.
In something less than a year and a half from the time he found her sitting on a broken fragment of stone work buried in the grass of his wild garden, full of thrushes, starlings, and other innocent creatures of the air, he had given her amongst other accomplishments the art of sitting admirably on a horse, and directly they returned to Paris he took her out with him for their first morning ride.
