eyes as if she would fathom the depths of his soul, feeling herself softly enfolded in that warm atmosphere of pure love which vivifies all it touches and carries life and happiness to the chilliest extremities.
"To come to the children," he resumed; "what is your system with them?"
"One that answers excellently; the Abbé is a man of wdt, intelligence and profound learning. Shall I present him to you?"
"Yes, I should like to know all members of the household."
The Marquise waived her hand, and there entered from the dark pathway to which he had withdrawn with his charges, the young tutor, a hand on either lad's shoulder. In walk and look, a young oak between two reeds, there was something tender and fatherly in the man and his attitude that quite took the Marquis's fancy.
"Monsieur l'Abbé," began the Marquise, "I have good news to tell you. Our lord the Marquis is for taking up his residence among us."
"God be praised!" returned the Abbé.
"But alas! sir, this does not mean that the King is dead?"
"No, thank Heaven! But I have said farewell to the Court and the great world. I shall stay here with my children. I am weary of living for amusement and self-advancement only, and would fain make some sacrifice for affection's sake. So I am come to dwell at home. Now to begin with, are you satisfied, Monsieur l'Abbé, with your pupils? "
"As well content, Monsieur le Marquis, as a man can be."
"So much the better. Make them good Christians, like their mother; honest and true, like their grandfather, and . . ."
"Clever, able and talented, like their father," put in the Abbé; "I hope to succeed in all this."
"You are one of a thousand, Abbé. And you, old friend," he went on, turning to Bonbonne, "are you the same grumbler you always were? When I was their age, you wanted even then to initiate me into business ways. If I had followed your advice, I should not want your help so badly as I do to-day."
The children had joined hands and were dancing on the grass with the lighthearted gaiety of their age. Their father's eyes filled with tears, and after a moment's silence, he murmured softly:
"Dear lads, I will never leave you any more."
"I pray you may be saying true. Monsieur le Marquis! " broke in a deep, grave voice behind him. Monsieur de Chauvelin turned and found himself face to face with a stern-faced, white-robed monk, who saluted him with the calm reserve of a man of religion.
"This holy father, who and what is he?" the Marquis asked his wife.
"This is Father Delar, my confessor."
"Ah! your confessor," he repeated the word turning a trifle pale. Then in a lower tone, "I have need of a confessor, that is very true; you are welcome, sir."
The Monk, a man of tact and well accustomed to associate with great people, took no immediate notice of the offer; but he registered the words in his memory. He had been taken into his confidence by the Intendant a day or two before, and was prepared to undertake the necessary negotiations with the newly-arrived Marquis. He was resolved not to neglect so favourable an opportunity as the present for acting in God's interest, in that of the Marquise, and perhaps, of his own too.
"Might I venture to ask you news of the King, Monsieur le Marquis?" inquired the Monk.
"Why so, my father?"
"A rumour has gone abroad that Louis XV. was soon about to render to God an account of his reign. Such reports are generally but the precursors of Providence. His Majesty has not long to live, believe me!"
"You think so, my father?" asked Monsieur de Chauvelin, feeling more and more discouraged.
"It were therefore much to be desired that he should repent his scandalous life and do penance and ..."
"Sir," broke in Monsieur de Chauvelin with some heat, "'tis a confessor's duty to wait in silence till he is called in by his penitent."
"Death will not wait, sir; I have been long wearying for a word from you, but it fails to come."
"From me! Oh! my confession will be a long one, but the time is not yet ripe."
"The virtue of confession lies all in repentance, in sorrow for having sinned;
