“As for me, you are right enough,” he went on; “my vocation for our work was brought about by repentance, as the result of a—­folly.”

“A folly,—­you!” Godefroid exclaimed softly, the word entirely putting out of his head what he meant to say.

“Ah! dear me, what I am going to tell you will seem, I dare say, a trifle to you,—­a mere bit of nonsense; but before the tribunal of conscience it was another thing.  If you persist in wishing to share our work after hearing what I shall tell you, you will understand that the power of a sentiment is according to the nature of souls, and that a matter which would not in the least trouble a strong mind may very well torment the conscience of a weak Christian.”

After a preface of this kind, the curiosity of the disciple of course knew no bounds.  What could be the crime of the worthy soul whom Madame de la Chanterie called her paschal lamb?  The thought crossed Godefroid’s mind that a book might be written on it, called “The Sins of a Sheep.”  Sheep are sometimes quite ferocious towards grass and flowers.  One of the tenderest republicans of those days was heard to assert that the best of human beings was cruel to something.  But the kindly Alain!—­he, who like my uncle Toby, wouldn’t crush a gnat till it had stung him twenty times,—­that sweet soul to have been tortured by repentance!

This reflection in Godefroid’s mind filled the pause made by the old man after saying, “Now listen to me!”—­a pause he filled himself by pushing his cushion under Godefroid’s feet to share it with him.

“I was then about thirty years of age,” he said.  “It was the year ’98, if I remember right,—­a period when young men were forced to have the experience of men of sixty.  One morning, a little before my breakfast hour, which was nine o’clock, my old housekeeper ushered in one of the few friends remaining to me after the Revolution.  My first word was to ask him to breakfast.  My friend—­his name was Mongenod, a fellow about twenty-eight years of age—­accepted, but he did so in an awkward manner.  I had not seen him since 1793!”

“Mongenod!” cried Godefroid; “why, that is—­”

“If you want to know the end before the beginning, how am I to tell you my history?” said the old man, smiling.

Godefroid made a sign which promised absolute silence.

“When Mongenod sat down,” continued Monsieur Alain, “I noticed that his shoes were worn out.  His stockings had been washed so often that it was difficult to say if they were silk or not.  His breeches, of apricot-colored cassimere, were so old that the color had disappeared in spots; and the buckles, instead of being of steel, seemed to me to be made of common iron.  His white, flowered waistcoat, now yellow from long wearing, also his shirt, the frill of which was frayed, betrayed a horrible yet decent poverty.  A mere glance at his coat was enough to convince me that my friend had fallen into