“I will wait for you in the kitchen, my father,” he said; and the priest blessed him and hurried up to the castle.

Once more he entered through the door of the great kitchen, with its blue tiles, its glittering brass and bronze warming-pans which had comforted nobles and monarchs in the days of Croisac splendor.  He sank into a chair beside the stove while a maid hastened to the count.  She returned while the priest was still shivering, and announced that her master would see his holy visitor in the library.

It was a dreary room where the count sat waiting for the priest, and it smelled of musty calf, for the books on the shelves were old.  A few novels and newspapers lay on the heavy table, a fire burned on the andirons, but the paper on the wall was very dark and the fleurs-de-lis were tarnished and dull.  The count, when at home, divided his time between this library and the water, when he could not chase the boar or the stag in the forests.  But he often went to Paris, where he could afford the life of a bachelor in a wing of his great hotel; he had known too much of the extravagance of women to give his wife the key of the faded salons.  He had loved the beautiful girl when he married her, but her repinings and bitter discontent had alienated him, and during the past year he had held himself aloof from her in sullen resentment.  Too late he understood, and dreamed passionately of atonement.  She had been a high-spirited brilliant eager creature, and her unsatisfied mind had dwelt constantly on the world she had vividly enjoyed for one year.  And he had given her so little in return!

He rose as the priest entered, and bowed low.  The visit bored him, but the good old priest commanded his respect; moreover, he had performed many offices and rites in his family.  He moved a chair towards his guest, but the old man shook his head and nervously twisted his hands together.

“Alas, monsieur le comte,” he said, “it may be that you, too, will tell me that I am an old lunatic, as did Monsieur l’Eveque.  Yet I must speak, even if you tell your servants to fling me out of the chateau.”

The count had started slightly.  He recalled certain acid comments of the bishop, followed by a statement that a young cure should be sent, gently to supersede the old priest, who was in his dotage.  But he replied suavely: 

“You know, my father, that no one in this castle will ever show you disrespect.  Say what you wish; have no fear.  But will you not sit down?  I am very tired.”

The priest took the chair and fixed his eyes appealingly on the count.