glory of God, you answered the appeal of our Holy Father[14] to willing souls, and offered yourself as a missionary, to preach to savages the one Catholic faith.  Though it was painful to us to part with our dear son, we could not refuse to accede to such pious wishes.  You set out a humble missionary you return a glorious martyr—­and we are justly proud to reckon you amongst our number.  This rapid sketch of the past was necessary, my dear son to arrive at what follows, for we wish now, if it be possible, to draw still closer the bonds that unite us.  Listen to me, my dear son; what I am about to say is confidential and of the highest importance, not only for you, but the whole Company.”

“Then, father,” cried Gabriel hastily, interrupting the Abbe d’Aigrigny, “I cannot—­I ought not to hear you.”

The young priest became deadly pale; one saw, by the alteration of his features, that a violent struggle was taking place within him, but recovering his first resolution, he raised his head, and casting an assured look on Father d’Aigrigny and Rodin, who glanced at each other in mute surprise, he resumed:  “I repeat to you, father, that if it concerns confidential matters of the Company, I must not hear you.”

“Really, my dear son, you occasion me the greatest astonishment.  What is the matter?—­Your countenance changes, your emotion is visible.  Speak without fear; why can you not hear me?”

“I cannot tell you, father, until I also have, in my turn, rapidly sketched the past—­such as I have learned to judge it of late.  You will then understand, father, that I am no longer entitled to your confidence, for an abyss will doubtlessly soon separate us.”

At these words, it is impossible to paint the look rapidly exchanged between Rodin and Father d’Aigrigny.  The socius began to bite his nails, fixing his reptile eye angrily upon Gabriel; Father d’Aigrigny grew livid, and his brow was bathed in cold sweat.  He asked himself with terror, if, at the moment of reaching the goal, the obstacle was going to come from Gabriel, in favor of whom all other obstacles had been removed.  This thought filled him with despair.  Yet the reverend father contained himself admirably, remained calm, and answered with affectionate unction:  “It is impossible to believe, my dear son, that you and I can ever be separated by an abyss—­unless by the abyss of grief, which would be caused by any serious danger to your salvation.  But speak; I listen to you.”

“It is true, that, twelve years ago, father,” proceeded Gabriel, in a firm voice, growing more animated as he proceeded, “I entered, through your intervention, a college of the Company of Jesus.  I entered it loving, truthful, confiding.  How did they encourage those precious instincts of childhood?  I will tell you.  The day of my entrance, the Superior said to me, as he pointed out two children a little older than myself:  ’These are the companions that you will prefer.  You will always walk three