“Why, they used to tell him, under the seal of secrecy, things that were supposed to come from me; and they used to tell me, under the same seal of secrecy, things that were supposed to come from him.  Thus, he confessed to me, that he did not feel at first any vocation for the priesthood; but they told him that I should not believe myself safe in this world or in the next, if he did not take orders, because I felt persuaded that I could best serve the Lord by giving Him so good a servant; and that yet I had never dared to ask Gabriel himself to give me this proof of his attachment, though I had taken him from the street, a deserted orphan, and brought him up as my own son, at the cost of labor and privations.  Then, how could it be otherwise?  The poor dear child, thinking he could please me, sacrificed himself.  He entered the seminary.”

“Horrible,” said Agricola; “’tis an infamous snare, and, for the priests who were guilty of it, a sacrilegious lie!”

“During all that time,” resumed Frances, “they were holding very different language to me.  I was told that Gabriel felt his vocation, but that he durst not avow it to me, for fear of my being jealous on account of Agricola, who, being brought up as a workman, would not enjoy the same advantages as those which the priesthood would secure to Gabriel.  So when he asked my permission to enter the seminary dear child! he entered it with regret, but he thought he was making me so happy!—­instead of discouraging this idea, I did all in my power to persuade him to follow it, assuring him that he could not do better, and that it would occasion me great joy.  You understand, I exaggerated, for fear he should think me jealous on account of Agricola.”

“What an odious machination!” said Agricola, in amazement.  “They were speculating in this unworthy manner upon your mutual devotion.  Thus Gabriel saw the expression of your dearest wish in the almost forced encouragement given to his resolution.”

“Little by little, however, as Gabriel has the best heart in the world, the vocation really came to him.  That was natural enough—­he was born to console those who suffer, and devote himself for the unfortunate.  He would never have spoken to me of the past, had it not been for this morning’s interview.  But then I beheld him, who is usually so mild and gentle, become indignant, exasperated, against M. Rodin and another person whom he accuses.  He had serious complaints against them already, but these discoveries, he says, will make up the measure.”

At these words of Frances, Dagobert pressed his hand to his forehead, as if to recall something to his memory.  For some minutes he had listened with surprise, and almost terror, to the account of these secret plots, conducted with such deep and crafty dissimulation.