o me, for your letters would remain unanswered. Prayer
will henceforth be my only occupation. Excuse me for leaving you, but I
am fatigued from my journey!'--He spoke the truth for he was as pale as
a spectre, with a kind of wildness about the eyes, and so changed since
the day before, as to be hardly the same man. His hand, when he offered
it on parting from me, was dry and burning. The Abbe d'Aigrigny soon
came in. 'Father,' said M. Hardy to him, 'have the goodness to see M.
Baudoin to the door.'--So saying, he waved his hand to me in token of
farewell, and retired to the next chamber. All was over; he is lost to
us forever."

"Yes," said Dagobert, "those black-gowns have enchanted him, like so
many others."

"In despair," resumed Agricola, "I returned hither with M. Dupont. This,
then, is what the priests have made of M. Hardy--of that generous man,
who supported nearly three hundred industrious workmen in order and
happiness, increasing their knowledge, improving their hearts, and
earning the benediction of that little people, of which he was the
providence. Instead of all this, M. Hardy is now forever reduced to a
gloomy and unavailing life of contemplation."

"Oh, the black-gowns!" said Dagobert, shuddering, and unable to conceal
a vague sense of fear. "The longer I live, the more I am afraid of them.
You have seen what those people did to your poor mother; you see what
they have just done to M. Hardy; you know their plots against my two
poor orphans, and against that generous young lady. Oh, these people are
very powerful! I would rather face a battalion of Russian grenadiers,
than a dozen of these cassocks. But don't let's talk of it. I have
causes enough beside for grief and fear."

Then seeing the astonished look of Agricola, the soldier, unable to
restrain his emotion, threw himself into the arms of his son, exclaiming
with a choking voice: "I can hold out no longer. My heart is too full. I
must speak; and whom shall I trust if not you?"

"Father, you frighten me!" said Agricola, "What is the matter?"

"Why, you see, had it not been for you and the two poor girls, I should
have blown out my brains twenty times over rather than see what I
see--and dread what I do."

"What do you dread, father?"

"Since the last few days, I do not know what has come over the
marshal--but he frightens me."

"Yet in his last interviews with Mdlle. de Cardoville--"

"Yes, he was a little better. By her kind words, this