Watched over by her grandmother and served by her former nurse,
Gabrielle Beauvouloir never left this modest home except for the
parish church, the steeple of which could be seen at the summit of the
hill, whither she was always accompanied by her grandmother, her
nurse, and her father's valet. She had reached the age of seventeen in
that sweet ignorance which the rarity of books allowed a girl to
retain without appearing extraordinary at a period when educated women
were thought phenomenal. The house had been to her a convent, but with
more freedom, less enforced prayer,--a retreat where she had lived
beneath the eye of a pious old woman and the protection of her father,
the only man she had ever known. This absolute solitude, necessitated
from her birth by the apparent feebleness of her constitution, had
been carefully maintained by Beauvouloir.
As Gabrielle grew up, such constant care and the purity of the
atmosphere had gradually strengthened her fragile youth. Still, the
wise physician did not deceive himself when he saw the pearly tints
around his daughter's eyes soften or darken or flush according to the
emotions that overcame her; the weakness of the body and the strength
of the soul were made plain to him in that one indication which his
long experience enabled him to understand.
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