“It is true, father,” answered Gabriel, with sorrowful bitterness; “when, worn out and broken by three months of solitude and trial, I was completely exhausted, and unable to move a step, you opened the door of my cell, and said to me:  ’If you like, rise and walk; you are free; Alas!  I had no more strength.  The only desire of my soul, inert and paralyzed for so long a period, was the repose of the grave; and pronouncing those irrevocable vows, I fell, like a corpse, into your hands.”

“And, till now, my dear son, you have never failed in this corpse—­like obedience,—­to use the expression of our glorious founder—­because, the more absolute this obedience, the more meritorious it must be.”

After a moment’s silence, Gabriel resumed:  “You had always concealed from me, father, the true ends of the Society into which I entered.  I was asked to abandon my free-will to my superiors, in the name of the Greater Glory of God.  My vows once pronounced, I was to be in your hands a docile and obedient instrument; but I was to be employed, you told me, in a holy, great and beauteous work.  I believed you, father—­how should I not have believed you? but a fatal event changed my destiny—­a painful malady caused by—­”

“My son,” cried Father d’Aigrigny, interrupting Gabriel, “it is useless to recall these circumstances.”

“Pardon me, father, I must recall them.  I have the right to be heard.  I cannot pass over in silence any of the facts, which have led me to take the immutable resolution that I am about to announce to you.”

“Speak on, my son,” said Father d’Aigrigny, frowning; for he was much alarmed at the words of the young priest, whose cheeks, until now pale, were covered with a deep blush.

“Six months before my departure for America,” resumed Gabriel, casting down his eyes, “you informed me, that I was destined to confess penitents; and to prepare then for that sacred ministry, you gave me a book.”

Gabriel again hesitated.  His blushes increased.  Father d’Aigrigny could scarcely restrain a start of impatience and anger.

“You gave me a book,” resumed the young priest, with a great effort to control himself, “a book containing questions to be addressed by a confessor to youths, and young girls, and married women, when they present themselves at the tribunal of penance.  My God!” added Gabriel, shuddering at the remembrance.  “I shall never forget that awful moment.  It was night.  I had retired to my chamber, taking with me this book, composed, you told me, by one of our fathers, and completed by a holy bishop.[18] Full of respect, faith, and confidence, I opened those pages.  At first, I did not understand them—­afterwards I understood—­and then I was seized with shame and horror—­struck with stupor—­and had hardly strength to close, with trembling hand, this abominable volume.  I ran to you, father, to accuse myself of having involuntarily cast my eyes on those nameless pages, which, by mistake, you had placed in my hands.”