“Do you not feel all that is touching, that is heavenly in the story of the youthful page, falsely accused, and carrying the letter containing the order for his execution, who sets out without a thought of ill, and whom Providence protects and saves—­miraculously, we say!  But do you know wherein the miracle lies?  Virtue has a glory as potent as that of innocent childhood.

“I say these things not meaning to admonish you,” said the old priest, with deep grief.  “I, alas! am not your spiritual director; you are not kneeling at the feet of God; I am your friend, appalled by dread of what your punishment may be.  What has become of that unhappy Albert?  Has he, perhaps, killed himself?  There was tremendous passion under his assumption of calm.  I understand now that old Prince Soderini, the father of the Duchess d’Argaiolo, came here to take back his daughter’s letters and portraits.  This was the thunderbolt that fell on Albert’s head, and he went off, no doubt, to try to justify himself.  But how is it that in fourteen months he has given us no news of himself?”

“Oh! if I marry him, he will be so happy!”

“Happy?—­He does not love you.  Besides, you have no great fortune to give him.  Your mother detests you; you made her a fierce reply which rankles, and which will be your ruin.  When she told you yesterday that obedience was the only way to repair your errors, and reminded you of the need for marrying, mentioning Amedee—­’If you are so fond of him, marry him yourself, mother!’—­Did you, or did you not, fling these words in her teeth?”

“Yes,” said Rosalie.

“Well, I know her,” Monsieur de Grancey went on.  “In a few months she will be Comtesse de Soulas!  She will be sure to have children; she will give Monsieur de Soulas forty thousand francs a year; she will benefit him in other ways, and reduce your share of her fortune as much as possible.  You will be poor as long as she lives, and she is but eight-and-thirty!  Your whole estate will be the land of les Rouxey, and the small share left to you after your father’s legal debts are settled, if, indeed, your mother should consent to forego her claims on les Rouxey.  From the point of view of material advantages, you have done badly for yourself; from the point of view of feeling, I imagine you have wrecked your life.  Instead of going to your mother—­” Rosalie shook her head fiercely.

“To your mother,” the priest went on, “and to religion, where you would, at the first impulse of your heart, have found enlightenment, counsel, and guidance, you chose to act in your own way, knowing nothing of life, and listening only to passion!”

These words of wisdom terrified Mademoiselle de Watteville.

“And what ought I to do now?” she asked after a pause.

“To repair your wrong-doing, you must ascertain its extent,” said the Abbe.

“Well, I will write to the only man who can know anything of Albert’s fate, Monsieur Leopold Hannequin, a notary in Paris, his friend since childhood.”