Lionel and his guide walked one after the other, leaving the Lalagne valley and heading deeper into the mountains.
The road quickly changed from a deeply rutted dirt path to a narrow, winding goat trail barely wide enough for a single 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 turbulent stream could be heard.
Fabien led the horse ahead, occasionally stopping and pointing to a spot to tell Lionel, "See that clearing in the woods? Twenty years ago, there was a family living there.
Later, the son went to Lyon to join the army and never returned, and the old couple didn't survive the last winter."
When Lionel asked about Our Lady of Lourdes, Fabien's conversation opened up a bit, but his tone was a mix of pious reverence and practical complaints.
"Notre Dame, they say it's been there for hundreds of years. The nuns inside, well, how should I put it, their hearts are good, but they're as stubborn as the mountain rocks."
"They do give a little charity to families who are really struggling, a few loaves of black bread, or some herbs… But their rules are also strict."
"The year before last, my daughter accidentally entered what they considered 'sacred ground' and was severely reprimanded, told she had blasphemed God, and was so scared she was sick for several days."
"They always feel that the defilement of the outside world will taint their purity. But without things from the outside, their place wouldn't survive."
Amidst the chatter, the two walked for about three hours, passing through an especially dense fir forest, when the view suddenly opened up.
A complex of buildings built against a cliff appeared on a plateau at the end of the valley; that was Our Lady of Lourdes.
It was built of dark gray local stone, its walls deep in color, covered with thick moss and lichen; it was so ancient and heavy that time seemed to have frozen there.
As a male, Lionel was not allowed into the main building.
He was led by a stern-faced, silent elderly nun to a separate stone house outside the high walls of the monastery.
The small house was extremely simple, with only a rough wooden table and two long benches, and the air was filled with a faint smell of mold and the lingering scent of incense.
Fabien tied up the horse and discreetly waited outside.
After a full half hour, the door was pushed open, and Mother Marcella walked in.
She was very old, but her back was ramrod straight, her face covered with wrinkles like carved by a knife and chisel, and her lips were tightly pursed, thin as a blade.
Her voice was cold: "You're from Montiel? Looking for Sister Roche?"
Lionel stood up and greeted her politely: "Yes, Mother. I am Lionel Sorel, a friend of Alice Roche.
I just returned to Lalagne from Paris not long ago!"
Mother Marcella sneered: "I've heard of you… Even Pierre, who delivers the grain, talks about how impressive you are…"
Lionel bowed slightly: "That's only because there's truly nothing new here… I wanted to ask, Alice…"
Mother Marcella's voice suddenly became sharp: "She ran away! She betrayed her vows to God and failed to live up to the sanctuary's protection!
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 Roche had given him from his pocket: "Mother, I understand your position.
But I came this time with the full authorization of Alice's parents, Etienne and Marie Roche."
He gently pushed the documents across the table: "They entrusted me to search for 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…
A promise she may not have fully understood at her age at the time."
Mother Marcella glanced at the documents, her tone becoming even more severe: "Parental feelings cannot override sacred vows!
She chose to serve God, so she must…"
"Mother," Lionel interrupted her, his tone still polite: "Please allow me to remind you that the current public opinion in Paris is not very favorable towards the Church.
I wonder if you heard about the… unfortunate exorcism ceremony at Notre Dame not long ago and its aftermath?"
Mother Marcella's expression stiffened slightly; she was the only one in the entire convent authorized to read newspapers and books other than classics.
Seeing her reaction, Lionel smiled slightly and lowered his voice: "The Church is at the center of a storm, and any small flaw could be infinitely magnified.
Imagine if Parisian newspapers, like 'Le Figaro' or 'Le Petit Journal,' got hold of a story like this—
A rural girl, sent by her parents to a remote mountain convent, overwhelmed and fled while studying in Paris, completely out of touch, her life or death 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 run away?
What did she encounter that led to such a complete disappearance? Did she die in a foreign land, frozen to death on the streets?
Or… did she fall into depravity, struggling in some dark corner of Paris?"
Mother Marcella's eyes began to glaze over.
Lionel leaned forward: "Regardless of the outcome, where would the finger of public opinion point? Would it blame the helpless girl?
Or condemn the… convent that failed to give her proper care, or even pushed her to her doom?"
Although Mother Marcella was cornered by Lionel's barrage of questions, as the long-time head of the convent with absolute authority, she was not so easily swayed.
Her response was sharp: "Mr. Sorel, are you threatening me? Or are you threatening the Sisters of Saint Martha?
Or do you want to challenge the very foundation of faith in France?"
Lionel suddenly relaxed, leaning back in his chair, and showed a friendly smile: "Mother, as a small writer, I know a few friends in the Parisian press who might be able to help me with a small favor.
If the Alice-Clementine Roche I 'find' is a cold corpse, or… disfigured by life's hardships…
It would be very difficult for me to explain to her parents, and very difficult to restrain the urge to make everything I know public.
After all, someone has to speak out for such a tragedy, don't you agree?"
After a pause, Lionel offered a rather tempting solution: "Conversely, if this matter could end in a… gentler, less conspicuous way.
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 suggesting that the Sisters of Saint Martha, out of mercy and consideration, cease their investigation and let her soul rest in peace.
Then, all potential risks would dissipate.
For the convent, for the order, for everyone, this is the safest option.
After all, what the Church needs more now is peace and dignity, not another controversy, wouldn't you agree, Mother?"
A long silence fell over the stone house, broken only by the faint sound of Mother Marcella's rosary beads clicking.
Lionel did not rush her, only looking down and counting the wood grain on the table.
After a long while, Mother Marcella very slowly stood up: "Wait a moment." 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 dirty.
Her voice was tired and hollow: "Take it. I hope this… will be as you wish."
Lionel placed the letter in 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. Fabien was dozing against a rock, and the horses were quietly grazing nearby.
As he mounted his horse and took one last look at the ancient, dark gray convent, he keenly noticed that behind the narrow windows, several pairs of young, curious eyes seemed to be secretly watching him, the "uninvited guest."
Those gazes flashed and were gone, quickly disappearing behind the dark window openings.
A complex emotion welled up in Lionel's heart, relief at his success, but also an unspeakable heaviness.
Ultimately, he could only lightly shake the reins, urging his horse to begin the journey home.