“Edouard, you are interrogating your own conscience,” I answered.  “These are questions which you must have answered yourself, before you took your vows.  When you answered them, you sealed them.”

Perhaps I spoke too harshly, for he colored and drew up his feet.  Such shapely little feet they were.  I felt ashamed of my crustiness.

“But, Edouard,” I added, “your vows are those of the novitiate.  You are not yet twenty-eight.  You have still the right to ask yourself these things.  The world is very fair to men of your age.  Do not dream that I was angry with you.”

He sat gazing into the fire.  His face wore a strange, far-away expression, as he reached forth his hand, in a groping way, and rested it on my knee, clutching the gown nervously.  Then he spoke slowly, seeking for words, and keeping his eye on the flames: 

“You have been good to me, Brother Sebastian.  Let me ask you:  May I tell you something in confidence—­something which shall never pass your lips?  I mean it.”

He had turned and poured those marvellous eyes into mine with irresistible magnetism.  Of course I said, “Speak!” and I said it without the slightest hesitation.

“I am not a Christian Brother.  I do not belong to your order.  I have no claim upon the hospitality of this roof.  I am an impostor!”

He ejected these astounding sentences with an energy almost fierce, gripping my knee meanwhile.  Then, as suddenly, his grasp relaxed, and he fell to weeping bitterly.

I stared at him solemnly, in silence.  My tongue seemed paralyzed.  Confusing thoughts whirled in a maze unbidden through my head.  I could say nothing.  But a strange impulse prompted me to reach out and take his hot hand in mine.  It was piteous to hear him sobbing, his head upon his raised arm, his whole frame quivering with emotion.  I had never seen any one weep like that before.  So I sat dumb, trying in vain to answer this bewildering self-accusation.  At last there came out of the folds of the chair the words, faint and tear-choked: 

“You have promised me secrecy, and you will keep your word; but you will hate me.”

“Why no, no, Edouard, not hate you,” I answered, scarcely knowing what I said.  I did not comprehend it at all.  There was nothing more for me to say.  Finally, when some power of thought returned, I asked: 

“Of all things, my poor boy, why should you choose such a dreary life as this?  What possible reason led you to enter the community?  What attractions has it for you?”

Edouard turned again from the fire to me.  His eyes sparkled.  His teeth were tight set.

“Why?  Why?  I will tell you why, Brother Sebastian.  Can you not understand how a poor hunted beast should rejoice to find shelter in such an out-of-the-way place, among such kind men, in the grave of this cloister life?  I have not told you half enough.  Do you not know in the outside world, in Toulon, or Marseilles, or that fine Paris of yours, there is a price on my head?—­or no, not that, but enemies that are looking for me, searching everywhere, turning every little stone for the poor privilege of making me suffer?  And do you know that these enemies wear shakos, and are called gens d’armes?  Would you be pleased to learn that it is a prison I escape by coming here? Now, will you hate me?”