“You are under a mistake,” was his argument.  “You have not gone deep into these matters; you have made acquaintance only with the agitated surface of them.”  And he proceeded to make good all this assertion, it was so readily proven! He also had been beguiled,—­ah, had he not?  He had been beguiled by the rude eloquence, the insensibility to pain, the pride of opposition, the pride of poverty, the pride of a rude nature, exhibited by John Leclerc.

He acknowledged freely, with a fatal candor, that, until he came to consider these things in their true light, when shut away from all outward influences, until compelled to quiet meditation beyond the reach and influence of mere enthusiasm, he had believed with Leclerc, even as Victor was believing now.  He could have gone on, who might tell to what fanatical length? had it not been for that fortunate arrest which made a sane man of him!

Leclerc was not quite in the wrong,—­not absolutely,—­but neither was he, as Mazurier had once believed, gloriously in the right.  It was clearly apparent to him, that Victor Le Roy, having now also like opportunity for calm reflection, would come to like conclusions.

With such confident prophecy, Mazurier left the young man.  His visit was brief and hurried;—­no duty that could be waived should call him away from his friend at such a time; but he would return; they would speak of this again; and he kissed Victor, and blessed him, and went out to bid the authorities delay yet before the lad was brought to trial, for he was confident, that, if left to reflection, he would come to his senses, and choose wisely—­between God and Mammon?  Mazurier expressed it in another way.

* * * * *

In the street, Elsie Meril heard of Victor’s arrest, and she brought the news to Jacqueline.  They had returned to Meaux, to their old lodging, and a day had passed, during which, moment by moment, his arrival was anticipated.  Elsie went out to buy a gift for Jacqueline, a bit of fine apparelling which she had coveted from the moment she knew Jacqueline should be a bride.  She stole away on her errand without remark, and came back with the gift,—­but also with that which made it valueless, unmentionable, though it was a costly offering, purchased with the wages of more than a week’s labor in the fields.

It was almost dark when she returned to Jacqueline.  Her friend was sitting by the window,—­waiting,—­not for her; and when she went in to her, it was silently, with no mention of her errand or her love-gift.  Quietly she sat down, thankful that the night was falling, waiting for its darkness before she should speak words which would make the darkness to be felt.

“He does not come,” said Jacqueline, at length.

“Did you think it was he, when I came up the stairs?” inquired Elsie, tenderly.

“Oh, no!  I can tell your step from all the rest.”

“His, too, I think.”