Not only did he entertain his leisure with wrecking the happiness of a united family, but he was an enemy open and declared of France.  It was his amiable pastime at the dinner-table, when he had first helped himself to such delicacies as tempted his dainty palate, to pronounce a pompous eulogy upon the German Emperor.  France, he would say with an exultant smile, is a pays pourri, which exists merely to be the football of Prussia.  She has but one hope of salvation—­still the monster speaks—­and that is to fall into the benign occupation of a vigorous race.  Once upon a time—­the infamy is scarce credible—­he was conducting his young charges past a town-hall, over the lintel of whose door glittered those proud initials ‘R.  F.’  ‘What do they stand for?’ asked this demon Barlow.  And when the patriotic Tommy hesitated for an answer, the preceptor exclaimed with ineffable contempt, ‘Race de fous’!  It is no wonder, then, that this foe of his fatherland feared to receive a letter openly addressed; rather he would slink out under cover of night and seek his correspondence at the poste restante, like a guilty lover or a British tourist.

The Chateau de Presles was built for his reception.  It was haunted by a secret, which none dare murmur in the remotest garret.  There was no more than a whisper of murder in the air, but the Marquis shuddered when his wife’s eye frowned upon him.  True, the miserable Menaldo had disappeared from his seminary ten years since, but threats of disclosure were uttered continually, and respectability might only be purchased by a profound silence.  Here was the Abbe’s most splendid opportunity, and he seized it with all the eagerness of a greedy temperament.  The Marquise, a wealthy peasant, who was rather at home on the wild hill-side than in her stately castle, became an instant prey to his devilish intrigue.  The governess, an antic old maid of fifty-seven, whose conversation was designed to bring a blush to the cheek of the most hardened dragoon, was immediately on terms of so frank an intimacy that she flung bread pellets at him across the table, and joyously proposed, if we may believe the priest on his oath, to set up housekeeping with him, that they might save expense.  Two high-spirited boys were always at hand to encourage his taste for flogging, and had it not been for the Marquis, the Abbe’s cup would have been full to overflowing.  But the Marquis loved not the lean, ogling instructor of his sons, and presently began to assail him with all the abuse of which he was master.  He charged the Abbe with unspeakable villainy; salop and saligaud were the terms in which he would habitually refer to him.  He knew the rascal for a spy, and no modesty restrained him from proclaiming his knowledge.  But whatever insults were thrown at the Abbe he received with a grin complacent as Shylock’s, for was he not conscious that when he liked the pound of flesh was his own!