ent of some days. Though I cannot give any
explanation of what I may think fit to order, I will just observe to you
that I have acted only for your interest."

"I am bound to believe your reverence," answered Gabriel, bowing his
head.

In spite of himself, the young priest felt a vague sense of fear, for
until his departure for his American mission, Father d'Aigrigny, at whose
feet he had pronounced the formidable vows which bound him irrevocably to
the Society of Jesus, had exercised over him that frightful species of
influence which, acting only by despotism, suppression, and intimidation,
breaks down all the living forces of the soul, and leaves it inert,
trembling, and terrified. Impressions of early youth are indelible, and
this was the first time, since his return from America, that Gabriel
found himself in presence of Father d'Aigrigny; and although he did not
shrink from the resolution he had taken, he regretted not to have been
able, as he had hoped, to gather new strength and courage from an
interview with Agricola and Dagobert. Father d'Aigrigny knew mankind too
well not to have remarked the emotion of the young priest, and to have
endeavored to explain its cause. This emotion appeared to him a favorable
omen; he redoubled, therefore, his seductive arts, his air of tenderness
and amenity, reserving to himself, if necessary, the choice of assuming
another mask. He sat down, while Gabriel and Rodin remained standing in a
respectful position, and said to the former: "You desire, my dear son, to
have an important interview with me?"

"Yes, father," said Gabriel, involuntarily casting down his eyes before
the large, glittering gray pupil of his superior.

"And I also have matters of great importance to communicate to you.
Listen to me first; you can speak afterwards."

"I listen, father."

"It is about twelve years ago, my dear son," said Father d'Aigrigny,
affectionately, "that the confessor of your adopted mother, addressing
himself to me through M. Rodin, called my attention to yourself, by
reporting the astonishing progress you had made at the school of the
Brothers. I soon found, indeed, that your excellent conduct, your gentle,
modest character, and your precocious intelligence, were worthy of the
most tender interest. From that moment I kept my eyes upon you, and at
the end of some time, seeing that you did not fall off, it appeared to me
that there was something more in you than the stuff that makes