“Oh, no!” said the baroness.

“I should not like to put him to the proof; you would suffer too much,” replied the rector.  “All Guerande is turned upside down about Calyste’s passion for this amphibious creature, who is neither man nor woman, who smokes like an hussar, writes like a journalist, and has at this very moment in her house the most venomous of all writers,—­so the postmaster says, and he’s a juste-milieu man who reads the papers.  They are even talking about her at Nantes.  This morning the Kergarouet cousin who wants to marry Charlotte to a man with sixty thousand francs a year, went to see Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel, and filled her mind with tales about Mademoiselle des Touches which lasted seven hours.  It is now striking a quarter to ten, and Calyste is not home; he is at Les Touches,—­perhaps he won’t come in all night.”

The baroness listened to the rector, who was substituting monologue for dialogue unconsciously as he looked at this lamb of his fold, on whose face could be read her anxiety.  She colored and trembled.  When the worthy man saw the tears in the beautiful eyes of the mother, he was moved to compassion.

“I will see Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel to-morrow,” he said.  “Don’t be too uneasy.  The harm may not be as great as they say it is.  I will find out the truth.  Mademoiselle Jacqueline has confidence in me.  Besides, Calyste is our child, our pupil,—­he will never let the devil inveigle him; neither will he trouble the peace of his family or destroy the plans we have made for his future.  Therefore, don’t weep; all is not lost, madame; one fault is not vice.”

“You are only informing me of details,” said the baroness.  “Was not I the first to notice the change in my Calyste?  A mother keenly feels the shock of finding herself second in the heart of her son.  She cannot be deceived.  This crisis in a man’s life is one of the trials of motherhood.  I have prepared myself for it, but I did not think it would come so soon.  I hoped, at least, that Calyste would take into his heart some noble and beautiful being,—­not a stage-player, a masquerader, a theatre woman, an author whose business it is to feign sentiments, a creature who will deceive him and make him unhappy!  She has had adventures—­”

“With several men,” said the rector.  “And yet this impious creature was born in Brittany!  She dishonors her land.  I shall preach a sermon upon her next Sunday.”

“Don’t do that!” cried the baroness.  “The peasants and the paludiers would be capable of rushing to Les Touches.  Calyste is worthy of his name; he is Breton; some dreadful thing might happen to him, for he would surely defend her as he would the Blessed Virgin.”

“It is now ten o’clock; I must bid you good-night,” said the abbe, lighting the wick of his lantern, the glass of which was clear and the metal shining, which testified to the care his housekeeper bestowed on the household property.  “Who could ever have told me, madame,” he added, “that a young man brought up by you, trained by me to Christian ideas, a fervent Catholic, a child who has lived as a lamb without spot, would plunge into such mire?”