“Yes,” said Agricola, mournfully, “and unfortunately there lacks proof to bring it home to the Abbe d’Aigrigny.  The other day, when I was examined by Mdlle. de Cardoville’s lawyer, with regard to our attempt on the convent, he told me that we should meet with obstacles at every step, for want of legal evidence, and that the priests had taken their precautions with so much skill that the indictment would be quashed.”

“That is just what the marshal thinks, my boy, and this increases his irritation at such injustice.”

“He should despise the wretches.”

“But the anonymous letters!”

“Well, what of them, father?”

“You shall know all.  A brave and honorable man like the marshal, when his first movement of indignation was over, felt that to insult the renegade disguised in the garb of a priest, would be like insulting an old man or a woman.  He determined therefore to despise him, and to forget him as soon as possible.  But then, almost every day, there came by the post anonymous letters, in which all sorts of devices were employed, to revive and excite the anger of the marshal against the renegade by reminding him of all the evil contrived by the Abbe d’Aigrigny against him and his family.  The marshal was reproached with cowardice for not taking vengeance on this priest, the persecutor of his wife and children, the insolent mocker at his misfortunes.”

“And from whom do you suspect these letters to come, father?”

“I cannot tell—­it is that which turns one’s brain.  They must come from the enemies of the marshal, and he has no enemies but the black-gowns.”

“But, father, since these letters are to excite his anger against the Abbe d’Aigrigny, they can hardly have been written by priests.”

“That is what I have said to myself.”

“But what, then, can be their object?”

“Their object? oh, it is too plain!” cried Dagobert.  “The marshal is hasty, ardent; he has a thousand reasons to desire vengeance on the renegade.  But he cannot do himself justice, and the other sort of justice fails him.  Then what does he do?  He endeavors to forget, he forgets.  But every day there comes to him an insolent letter, to provoke and exasperate his legitimate hatred, by mockeries and insults.  Devil take me! my head is not the weakest—­but, at such a game, I should go mad.”

“Father, such a plot would be horrible, and only worthy of hell!”

“And that is not all.”

“What more?”

“The marshal has received other letters; those he has not shown me—­but, after he had read the first, he remained like a man struck motionless, and murmured to himself:  ’They do not even respect that—­oh! it is too much—­too much!’—­And, hiding his face in his hands he wept.”

“The marshal wept!” cried the blacksmith, hardly able to believe what he heard.

“Yes,” answered Dagobert, “he wept like a child.”