to study and discuss the new philosophies that were permeating social life.  But the fame he had acquired there was hardly enviable.  He was too impish, too caustic, too much disposed — so thought his colleagues — to ridicule their sublime theories for the regeneration of mankind.  Himself he protested that he merely held them up to the mirror of truth, and that it was not his fault if when reflected there they looked ridiculous.

All that he achieved by this was to exasperate; and his expulsion from a society grown mistrustful of him must already have followed but for his friend, Philippe de Vilmorin, a divinity student of Rennes, who, himself, was one of the most popular members of the Literary Chamber.

Coming to Gavrillac on a November morning, laden with news of the political storms which were then gathering over France, Philippe found in that sleepy Breton village matter to quicken his already lively indignation.  A peasant of Gavrillac, named Mabey, had been shot dead that morning in the woods of Meupont, across the river, by a gamekeeper of the Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr.  The unfortunate fellow had been caught in the act of taking a pheasant from a snare, and the gamekeeper had acted under explicit orders from his master.

Infuriated by an act of tyranny so absolute and merciless, M. de Vilmorin proposed to lay the matter before M. de Kercadiou.  Mabey was a vassal of Gavrillac, and Vilmorin hoped to move the Lord of Gavrillac to demand at least some measure of reparation for the widow and the three orphans which that brutal deed had made.

But because Andre-Louis was Philippe’s dearest friend — indeed, his almost brother — the young seminarist sought him out in the first instance.  He found him at breakfast alone in the long, low-ceilinged, white-panelled dining-room at Rabouillet’s — the only home that Andre-Louis had ever known — and after embracing him, deafened him with his denunciation of M. de La Tour d’Azyr.

“I have heard of it already,” said Andre-Louis.

“You speak as if the thing had not surprised you,” his friend reproached him.

“Nothing beastly can surprise me when done by a beast.  And La Tour d’Azyr is a beast, as all the world knows.  The more fool Mabey for stealing his pheasants.  He should have stolen somebody else’s.”

“Is that all you have to say about it?”

“What more is there to say?  I’ve a practical mind, I hope.”

“What more there is to say I propose to say to your godfather, M. de Kercadiou.  I shall appeal to him for justice.”

“Against M. de La Tour d’Azyr?” Andre-Louis raised his eyebrows.

“Why not?”

“My dear ingenuous Philippe, dog doesn’t eat dog.”

“You are unjust to your godfather.  He is a humane man.”

“Oh, as humane as you please.  But this isn’t a question of humanity.  It’s a question of game-laws.”

M. de Vilmorin tossed his long arms to Heaven in disgust.  He was a tall, slender young gentleman, a year or two younger than Andre-Louis.  He was very soberly dressed in black, as became a seminarist, with white bands at wrists and throat and silver buckles to his shoes.  His neatly clubbed brown hair was innocent of powder.