“My sister says it is the most triste place in the world,” said he; “but we shall change all that when we arrive.”

There was nothing to prevent our arriving very soon to relieve Mlle. de Berensac’s depression, for the middle of the next day found us at Avranches, and we spent the afternoon wandering about somewhat aimlessly and staring across the bay at the mass of Mont St. Michel.  Directly beneath us as we stood on the hill, and lying in a straight line with the Mount, there was a large square white house, on the very edge of the stretching sand.  We were told that it was a convent.

“But the whole place is no livelier than one,” said I, yawning.  “My dear fellow, why don’t we go on?”

“It is right for you to see this interesting town,” answered Gustave gravely, but with a merry gleam in his eye.  “However, I have ordered a carriage, so be patient.”

“For what time?”

“Nine o’clock, when we have dined.”

“We are to get there in the dark, then?”

“What reason is there against that?” he asked, smiling.

“None,” said I; and I went to pack up my bag.

In my room I chanced to find a femme-de-chambre.  To her I put a question or two as to the gentry of the neighborhood.  She rattled me off a few distinguished names, and ended: 

“The duke of Saint-Maclou has also a small château.”

“Is he there now?” I asked.

“The duchess only, sir,” she answered.  “Ah, they tell wonderful stories of her!”

“Do they?  Pray, of what kind?”

“Oh, not to her harm, sir; or, at least, not exactly, though to simple country-folk—­”

The national shrug was an appropriate ending.

“And the duke?”

“He is a good man,” she answered earnestly, “and a very clever man.  He is very highly thought of at Paris, sir.”

I had hoped, secretly, to hear that he was a villain; but he was a good man.  It was a scurvy trick to play on a good man.  Well, there was no help for it.  I packed my bag with some dawning misgivings; the chambermaid, undisturbed by my presence, went on rubbing the table with some strong-smelling furniture polish.

“At least,” she observed, as though there had been no pause, “he gives much to the church and to the poor.”

“It may be repentance,” said I, looking up with a hopeful air.

“It is possible, sir.”

“Or,” cried I, with a smile, “hypocrisy?”

The chambermaid’s shake of her head refused to accept this idea; but my conscience, fastening on it, found rest.  I hesitated no longer.  The man was a cunning hypocrite.  I would go on cheerfully, secure that he deserved all the bamboozling which the duchess and my friend Gustave might prepare for him.

At nine o’clock, as Gustave had arranged, we started in a heavy carriage drawn by two great white horses and driven by a stolid fat hostler.  Slowly we jogged along under the stars, St. Michel being our continual companion on the right hand, as we followed the road round the bay.  When we had gone five or six miles, we turned suddenly inland.  There were banks on each side of the road now, and we were going uphill; for rising out of the plain there was a sudden low spur of higher ground.