emanations of love will at times pierce through the coarsest organization.  Edmee’s voice had just pronounced my name a short distance away, behind some foliage.  At first I thought I had been dreaming; I remained where I was, held my breath and listened.  It was she, on her way to the hermit’s, in company with the abbe.  They had stopped in a covered walk five or six yards from me, and they were talking in low voices, but in those clear tones which, in an exchange of confidence, compels attention with peculiar solemnity.

“I fear,” Edmee was saying, “that there will be trouble between him and M. de la Marche; perhaps something very serious—­who knows?  You do not understand Bernard.”

“He must be got away from here, at all costs,” answered the abbe.  “You cannot live in this way, continually exposed to the brutality of a brigand.”

“It cannot be called living.  Since he set foot in the house I have not had a moment’s peace of mind.  Imprisoned in my room, or forced to seek the protection of my friends, I am almost afraid to move.  It is as much as I dare to do to creep downstairs, and I never cross the corridor without sending Leblanc ahead as a scout.  The poor woman, who has always found me so brave, now thinks I am mad.  The suspense is horrible.  I cannot sleep unless I first bolt the door.  And look, abbe, I never walk about without a dagger, like the heroine of a Spanish ballad, neither more nor less.”

“And if this wretch meets you and frightens you, you will plunge it into your bosom?  Oh! that must not be.  Edmee, we must find some means of changing a position which is no longer tenable.  I take it that you do not wish to deprive him of your father’s friendship by confessing to the latter the monstrous bargain you were forced to make with this bandit at Roche-Mauprat.  But whatever may happen—­ah! my poor little Edmee, I am not a bloodthirsty man, but twenty times a day I find myself deploring that my character of priest prevents me from challenging this creature, and ridding you of him forever.”

This charitable regret, expressed so artlessly in my very ear, made me itch to reveal myself to them at once, were it only to put the abbe’s warlike humour to the proof; but I was restrained by the hope that I should at last discover Edmee’s real feelings and real intentions in regard to myself.

“Have no fear,” she said, in a careless tone.  “If he tries my patience too much, I shall not have the slightest hesitation in planting this blade in his cheek.  I am quite sure that a little blood-letting will cool his ardour.”

Then they drew a few steps nearer.

“Listen to me, Edmee,” said the abbe, stopping again.  “We cannot discuss this matter with Patience.  Let us come to some decision before we put it aside.  Your relations with Bernard are now drawing to a crisis.  It seems to me, my child, that you are not doing all you ought to ward off the evils that may strike us; for everything that is painful to you will be painful to all of us, and will touch us to the bottom of our hearts.”