“An hour after, we were upon our way, for we learned by the returned postilions, that M. Hardy had taken the Orleans road.  We followed him as far as Etampes.  There we heard that he had taken a cross-road, to reach a solitary house in a valley about four leagues from the highway.  They told us that this house called the Val-de-St. Herem, belonged to certain priests, and that, as the night was so dark, and the road so bad, we had better sleep at the inn, and start early in the morning.  We followed this advice, and set out at dawn.  In a quarter of an hour, we quitted the high-road for a mountainous and desert track.  We saw nothing but brown rocks, and a few birch trees.  As we advanced, the scene became wilder and wilder.  We might have fancied ourselves a hundred leagues from Paris.  At last we stopped in front of a large, old, black-looking house with only a few small windows in it, and built at the foot of a high, rocky mountain.  In my whole life I have never seen anything so deserted and sad.  We got out of the carriage, and I rang the bell.  A man opened the door.  ’Did not the Abbe d’Aigrigny arrive here last night with a gentleman?’ said I to this man, with a confidential air.  ’Inform the gentleman directly, that I come on business of importance, and that I must see him forthwith.’—­The man, believing me an accomplice, showed us in immediately; a moment after, the Abbe d’Aigrigny opened the door, saw me, and drew back; yet, in five minutes more, I was in presence of M. Hardy.”

“Well!” said Dagobert, with interest.

Agricola shook his head sorrowfully, and replied:  “I knew by the very countenance of M. Hardy, that all was over.  Addressing me in a mild but firm voice, he said to me:  ’I understand, I can even excuse, the motives that bring you hither.  But I am quite determined to live henceforth in solitude and prayer.  I take this resolution freely and voluntarily, because I would fain provide for the salvation of my soul.  Tell your fellows that my arrangements will be such as to leave them a good remembrance of me.’—­And as I was about to speak, M. Hardy interrupted me, saying:  ’It is useless, my friend.  My determination is unalterable.  Do not write to me, for your letters would remain unanswered.  Prayer will henceforth be my only occupation.  Excuse me for leaving you, but I am fatigued from my journey!’—­He spoke the truth for he was as pale as a spectre, with a kind of wildness about the eyes, and so changed since the day before, as to be hardly the same man.  His hand, when he offered it on parting from me, was dry and burning.  The Abbe d’Aigrigny soon came in.  ‘Father,’ said M. Hardy to him, ’have the goodness to see M. Baudoin to the door.’—­So saying, he waved his hand to me in token of farewell, and retired to the next chamber.  All was over; he is lost to us forever.”

“Yes,” said Dagobert, “those black-gowns have enchanted him, like so many others.”