“Well,” resumed the poor liberated convict, “when he left me the first time, and Catherine had gone with him to show the way, I was left alone.  I then felt within my soul a freshness, a calmness, a sweetness, I had never known since childhood.  It was like the happiness my poor Catherine had given me.  The love of this dear man had come to seek me; that, and his thought for me, for my future, stirred my soul to its depths; it changed me.  A light broke forth in my being.  As long as he was there, speaking to me, I resisted.  That’s not surprising; he was a priest, and we bandits don’t eat of their bread.  But when I no longer heard his footsteps nor Catherine’s, oh!  I was—­as he told me two days later—­enlightened by divine grace.  God gave me thenceforth strength to bear all,—­prison, sentence, irons, parting; even the life of the galleys.  I believed in his word as I do in the Gospel; I looked upon my sufferings as a debt I was bound to pay.  When I seemed to suffer too much, I looked across ten years and saw my home in the woods, my little Benjamin, my Catherine.  He kept his word, that good Monsieur Bonnet.  But one thing was lacking.  When at last I was released, Catherine was not at the gate of the galleys; she was not on the common.  No doubt she has died of grief.  That is why I am always sad.  Now, thanks to you, I shall have useful work to do; I can employ both body and soul,—­and my boy, too, for whom I live.”

“I begin to understand how it is that the rector has changed the character of this whole community,” said Madame Graslin.

“Nothing can resist him,” said Farrabesche.

“Yes, yes, I know it!” replied Veronique, hastily, making a gesture of farewell to her keeper.

Farrabesche withdrew.  Veronique remained alone on the terrace for a good part of the day, walking up and down in spite of a fine rain which fell till evening.  When her face was thus convulsed, neither her mother nor Aline dared to interrupt her.  She did not notice in the dusk that her mother was talking in the salon to Monsieur Bonnet; the old woman, anxious to put an end to this fresh attack of dreadful depression, sent little Francis to fetch her.  The child took his mother’s hand and led her in.  When she saw the rector she gave a start of surprise in which there seemed to be some fear.  Monsieur Bonnet took her back to the terrace, saying:—­

“Well, madame, what were you talking about with Farrabesche?”

In order not to speak falsely, Veronique evaded a reply; she questioned Monsieur Bonnet.

“That man was your first victory here, was he not?” she said.

“Yes,” he answered; “his conversion would, I thought, give me all Montegnac—­and I was not mistaken.”

Veronique pressed Monsieur Bonnet’s hand and said, with tears in her voice, “I am your penitent from this day forth, monsieur; I shall go to-morrow to the confessional.”

Her last words showed a great internal effort, a terrible victory won over herself.  The rector brought her back to the house without saying another word.  After that he remained till dinner-time, talking about the proposed improvements at Montegnac.