on that very evening when Edmee and myself sought shelter there.  The terrible scene which followed our arrival put an end to any irresolution still left in Patience.  Inclined to the Pythagorean doctrines, he had a horror of all bloodshed.  The death of a deer drew tears from him, as from Shakespeare’s Jacques; still less could he bear to contemplate the murder of a human being, and the instant that Gazeau Tower had served as the scene of two tragic deaths, it stood defiled in his eyes, and nothing could have induced him to pass another night there.  He followed us to Sainte-Severe, and soon allowed his philosophical scruples to be overcome by Edmee’s persuasive powers.  The little cottage which he was prevailed on to accept was humble enough not to make him blush with shame at a too palpable compromise with civilization; and, though the solitude he found there was less perfect than at Gazeau Tower, the frequent visits of the abbe and of Edmee could hardly have given him a right to complain.

Here the narrator interrupted his story again to expatiate on the development of Mademoiselle de Mauprat’s character.

Edmee, hidden away in her modest obscurity, was—­and, believe me, I do not speak from bias—­one of the most perfect women to be found in France.  Had she desired or been compelled to make herself known to the world, she would assuredly have been famous and extolled beyond all her sex.  But she found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues.  She was ignorant of her worth, as I myself was at that time, when, brutelike, I saw only with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her only because she was beautiful.  It should be said, too, that her fiance, M. de la Marche, understood her but little better.  He had developed the weakly mind with which he was endowed in the frigid school of Voltaire and Helvetius.  Edmee had fired her vast intellect with the burning declamations of Jean Jacques.  A day came when I could understand her—­the day when M. de la Marche could have understood her would never have come.

Edmee, deprived of her mother from the very cradle, and left to her young devices by a father full of confidence and careless good nature, had shaped her character almost alone.  The Abbe Aubert, who had confirmed her, had by no means forbidden her to read the philosophers by whom he himself had been lured from the paths of orthodoxy.  Finding no one to oppose her ideas or even to discuss them—­for her father, who idolized her, allowed himself to be led wherever she wished—­Edmee had drawn support from two sources apparently very antagonistic:  the philosophy which was preparing the downfall of Christianity, and Christianity which was proscribing the spirit of inquiry.  To account for this contradiction, you must recall what I told you about the effect produced on the Abbe Aubert by the Profession de Foi du Vicaire Savoyard.  Moreover, you must be aware that,