“In despair,” resumed Agricola, “I returned hither with M. Dupont.  This, then, is what the priests have made of M. Hardy—­of that generous man, who supported nearly three hundred industrious workmen in order and happiness, increasing their knowledge, improving their hearts, and earning the benediction of that little people, of which he was the providence.  Instead of all this, M. Hardy is now forever reduced to a gloomy and unavailing life of contemplation.”

“Oh, the black-gowns!” said Dagobert, shuddering, and unable to conceal a vague sense of fear.  “The longer I live, the more I am afraid of them.  You have seen what those people did to your poor mother; you see what they have just done to M. Hardy; you know their plots against my two poor orphans, and against that generous young lady.  Oh, these people are very powerful!  I would rather face a battalion of Russian grenadiers, than a dozen of these cassocks.  But don’t let’s talk of it.  I have causes enough beside for grief and fear.”

Then seeing the astonished look of Agricola, the soldier, unable to restrain his emotion, threw himself into the arms of his son, exclaiming with a choking voice:  “I can hold out no longer.  My heart is too full.  I must speak; and whom shall I trust if not you?”

“Father, you frighten me!” said Agricola, “What is the matter?”

“Why, you see, had it not been for you and the two poor girls, I should have blown out my brains twenty times over rather than see what I see—­and dread what I do.”

“What do you dread, father?”

“Since the last few days, I do not know what has come over the marshal—­but he frightens me.”

“Yet in his last interviews with Mdlle. de Cardoville—­”

“Yes, he was a little better.  By her kind words, this generous young lady poured balm into his wounds; the presence of the young Indian cheered him; he appeared to shake off his cares, and his poor little girls felt the benefit of the change.  But for some days, I know not what demon has been loosed against his family.  It is enough to turn one’s head.  First of all, I am sure that the anonymous letters have begun again.”

“What letters, father?”

“The anonymous letters.”

“But what are they about?”

“You know how the marshal hated that renegade, the Abbe d’Aigrigny.  When he found that the traitor was here, and that he had persecuted the two orphans, even as he persecuted their mother to the death—­but that now he had become a priest—­I thought the marshal would have gone mad with indignation and fury.  He wishes to go in search of the renegade.  With one word I calmed him.  ‘He is a priest,’ I said; ’you may do what you will, insult or strike him—­he will not fight.  He began by serving against his country, he ends by becoming a bad priest.  It is all in character.  He is not worth spitting upon.’—­’But surely I may punish the wrong done to my children, and avenge the death of my wife,’ cried the marshal, much exasperated.—­’They say, as you well know, that there are courts of law to avenge your wrongs,’ answered I; ’Mdlle. de Cardoville has lodged a charge against the renegade, for having attempted to confine your daughters in a convent.  We must champ the bit and wait."’