That sweet name which he murmured low with love.  That sweet young girl the sight of whom was as pleasant as a sun-beam, he was going to leave her for ever.

It was for his good, his honour, his quiet, his future; he knew it, he felt it, but he was full of sorrow.

Meanwhile, he overwhelmed his uncle with marks of attention and friendship; he made every effort to cope with his guest’s cheerful discourse, who, after relating the flight of the Grand-Vicar, surprised in criminal conversation with the wife of the Captain of Gendarmerie, acquainted him all the little ecclesiastical scandals.  But he gave only a partial attention; his thoughts were absorbed in his inmost preoccupations.  Now and again only did he let fall a few observations in reply:  “How horrible,” or “How shocking,” or again:  “How abominable!”

Ridoux did not appear at first to pay attention to his nephew’s gloomy thoughts.  He laughed and joked all alone, but he did not miss a mouthful.  Old priests are generally greedy.  Good cheer is one of the joys which is left to them.

With no serious preoccupation, with no anxiety for the future, exempt from family cares, they transfer all their solicitude to themselves, and make a divinity of their belly.

But when his appetite, sharpened by his journey, was appeased, he examined Marcel with curiosity, and what he observed, combined with a few indiscreet words of Veronica, confirmed him in his suspicions, that a drama was being enacted in the young man’s soul.

—­Do you know, he said to him, that you are a pitiable companion.  You scarcely eat, you scarcely speak, you do not drink, and you laugh still less.  Why, what’s the matter with you?  Are you not gratified at my visit?

—­Forgive me, uncle, but I am rather poorly, said Marcel; that is my excuse.

—­That is what the maid-servant told me, but you declared to me that you were quite well.

—­How can you suppose that I am not happy to see you?  You know my feelings well.

—­I know that you have excellent feelings.  But I find you quite changed.  It is scarcely a year since I saw you, and you bear marks of weariness.  You stoop like an old man.  Look at me, always the same, firm as a rock.  “God smites the wicked with many plagues, but he encompasseth with his help those that hope in him.”  Second penitential psalm.  You are not wicked:  what plague consumes you?  Ambition?  Patience, everything will be changed, since your enemy is vanquished.  Is it your conscience which is ill at ease?  But conscience should be cheerful; that is its true sign.  Is it anything else?  Come, tell me.

—­Well yes, uncle, there is something.  The same complaint as before, you know, when I hesitated to enter the seminary, when I had doubts about my vocation.  You ended my hesitation and silenced my doubts; you have made a priest of me; well, now more than ever, I have moments of lassitude which make me disgusted with my calling.