And when I came out of my room, there sat Madame Croquelebois, who had been sent for from the Hotel d’Aubepine to keep guard over me, day and night; for she was lodged in that cabinet of my sister’s into which my room opened, and my door on the other side was locked.  It was an insult, for which the excuse was my interview with Clement.  It made me hot and indignant enough, but there was yet a further purpose in it.

The next thing was to send for a certain Frere Allonville, a man who had been a doctor before he was converted and became a Dominican friar, and who still practiced, and was aid to do cures by miracle.  I know this, that it would have been a miracle if his treatment had cured my brother, for the first thing he did was to bleed him, the very thing that Dr. Dirkius had always told us was the sure way to kill him, when he was losing so much blood already.  Then the friar turned out Tryphena, on the plea that he must have a nurse who understood his language.  As if poor Tryphena, after living thirteen years in France, could not understand the tongue quite enough for any purpose, and as if she did not know better how to take care of Eustace than any one else!  But of course the language was not the real reason that she was shut out, and kept under guard, as it were, just as much as I was, while a Sister of Charity was brought in to act as my brother’s nurse, under my mother, who, look you, never had been nurse at all, and always fainted at any critical moment.

Assuredly I knew why they were thus isolating my brother from all of us.  I heard steps go upstairs, not only of the Dominican quack doctor, but of the Abbe Montagu, who had been previously sent to convert us.  The good old Bonchamp, who had a conscience, was away at St. Germain with Gaspard de Nidemerle, and I—­I had no one to appeal to when I knew they were harassing the very life out of my dearest, dearest brother, by trying to make him false to the Church and the faith he had fought for.  I could do nothing—­I was a prisoner; all by my own fault too; for they would have had no such opportunity had I not been so unguarded towards my brother.  When I did meet my mother it chafed me beyond all bearing to see her devout air of resignation and piety.  Her dear son was, alas! in the utmost danger, but his dispositions were good, and she trusted to see him in the bosom of the true Church, and that would be a consolation, even if he were not raised up by a miracle, which would convince even me.  Poor woman, I believe she really did expect that his conversion would be followed by a miraculous recovery.  I told her she was killing him—­ and well!  I don’t know what I said, but I think I frightened her, for she sent Mr. Walter Montague to see what he could do with me.

I told him I wondered he was not ashamed of such a conversion, supposing he made it, which I was sure he would not, as long as my brother retained his senses.

To which he answered that Heaven was merciful, and that so long as one was in communion with the true Church there was power to be redeemed in the next world, if not in this.