em until he had the full authorisation of
Monseigneur to do otherwise. It was thus a definite leave-taking, for
she knew a marriage would be utterly impossible. She had made him almost
distracted as she explained to him how wrongly he had done in thus
compromising a young, ignorant, confiding child, whom he would not be
allowed to make his wife; and then he had assured her, that if he could
not see her again, he would die from grief, rather than be disloyal.

That same evening he confessed everything to his father.

"You see, my dear," continued Hubertine, "you are so courageous that I
can repeat to you all I know without hesitation. Oh! if you realised, my
darling, how I pity you, and what admiration I have for you since I have
found you so strong, so brave in keeping silent and in appearing gay
when your heart was heavily burdened. But you will have need of even
more firmness; yes, much more, my dear. This afternoon I have seen the
Abbe Cornille, and he gives me no encouragement whatever. Monseigneur
refuses to listen to the subject, so there is no more hope."

She expected a flood of fears, and she was astonished to see her
daughter reseat herself tranquilly, although she had turned very pale.
The old oaken table had been cleared, and a lamp lighted up this ancient
servants' hall, the quiet of which was only disturbed by the humming of
the boiler.

"Mother, dear, the end has not yet come. Tell me everything, I beg of
you. Have I not a right to know all, since I am the one above all others
most deeply interested in the matter?"

And she listened attentively to what Hubertine thought best to tell her
of what she had learned from the Abbe, keeping back only certain details
of the life which was as yet an unknown thing to this innocent child.

CHAPTER XIII

Since the return of his son to him Monseigneur's days had been full of
trouble. After having banished him from his presence almost immediately
upon the death of his wife, and remaining without seeing him for twenty
years, lo! he had now come back to him in the plenitude and lustre of
youth, the living portrait of the one he had so mourned, with the same
delicate grace and beauty. This long exile, this resentment against
a child whose life had cost that of the mother, was also an act of
prudence. He realised it doubly now, and regretted that he had changed
his determination of not seeing him again. Age, twenty years of prayer,
his life as clergyman, had not