“I fear you are ill, father,” said De Valette, approaching him with kindness; “can I do anything to assist or relieve you?”

“I was ill, my son,” he replied; “but it is over now—­passed away like a troubled phantasy, which visits the weary and restless slumberer, and flies at the approach of returning reason.”

“Your language is figurative,” returned De Valette, “and implies the sufferance of mental, rather than bodily pain.  If such is your unhappy state, I know full well that human skill is unavailing.”

“What know you of pain?” asked the priest, with startling energy; “you, who bask in the sunshine of fortune’s smile,—­whose days are one ceaseless round of careless gaiety,—­whose repose is yet unbroken by the gnawing worm of never-dying repentance!  Such, too, I was, in the spring-time of my life; I drained the cup of pleasure,—­but misery and disappointment were in its dregs; I yielded to the follies and passions of my youthful heart,—­and the sting of remorse and ceaseless regret have entered my inmost soul!”

“Pardon me, father,” said De Valette, “if I have unconsciously awakened thoughts which time, perchance, had well nigh soothed into forgetfulness!”

“Awakened thoughts!” the priest repeated, in a melancholy voice; “they can never, never sleep! repentance cannot obliterate them,—­years of penance—­fastings, and vigils, and wanderings, cannot wear them from my remembrance!  Look at me, my son, and may this decaying frame, which time might yet have spared, teach thee the vanity of human hopes, and lead thee to resist the impulses of passion, and to mistrust and regulate, even the virtuous inclinations of thy heart!”

“Your words will be long remembered, father!” said De Valette, touched by the sorrow of the venerable man; “and may the good saints restore peace and hope to your wounded spirit!”

“And may heaven bless you, my son, and preserve you from those fatal errors which have wrecked my peace, and withered the fairest hopes that ever blossomed on the tree of earthly happiness!  Go now,” he added, in a firmer tone, “forget this interview, if possible, and when we meet again, think not of what you have now heard and witnessed, but see in me only the humble missionary of the church, who, till this day”—­his voice again trembled, “till she crossed my path”—­

“She!” interrupted De Valette; “do you mean Mademoiselle de Courcy?”

“De Courcy!” repeated the priest, grasping the arm of Eustace, while the paleness of death overspread his features; “who bears that most unhappy name?”

“The niece of Mad. de la Tour,” returned De Valette; “and, however unfortunate the name, it has, as yet, entailed no evil on its present possessor.”

“Was it she, whom I just now saw with you?” asked the priest, with increasing agitation.

“It was; and pardon me, father, your vehemence has already greatly alarmed her.”