“For seven years Monsieur Granville has lived in sin with a concubine, by whom he has two children; and on this adulterous connection he has spent more than five hundred thousand francs, which ought to have been the property of his legitimate family.” “I must see it to believe it!” cried the Countess. “Far be it from you!” exclaimed the Abbe. “You must forgive, my daughter, and wait in patience and prayer till God enlightens your husband; unless, indeed, you choose to adopt against him the means offered you by human laws.” The long conversation that ensued between the priest and his penitent resulted in an extraordinary change in the Countess; she abruptly dismissed him, called her servants who were alarmed at her flushed face and crazy energy. She ordered her carriage--countermanded it--changed her mind twenty times in the hour; but at last, at about three o’clock, as if she had come to some great determination, she went out, leaving the whole household in amazement at such a sudden transformation. “Is the Count coming home to dinner?” she asked of his servant, to whom she would never speak. “No, madame.” “Did you go with him to the Courts this morning?” “Yes, madame.” “And to-day is Monday?” “Yes, madame.” “Then do the Courts sit on Mondays nowadays?” “Devil take you!” cried the man, as his mistress drove off after saying to the coachman: “Rue Taitbout.” Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille was weeping: Roger, sitting by her side, held one of her hands between his own. He was silent, looking by turns at little Charles--who, not understanding his mother’s grief, stood speechless at the sight of her tears--at the cot where Eugenie lay sleeping, and Caroline’s face, on which grief had the effect of rain falling across the beams of cheerful sunshine. “Yes, my darling,” said Roger, after a long silence, “that is the great secret: I am married. But some day I hope we may form but one family. My wife has been given over ever since last March. I do not wish her dead; still, if it should please God to take her to Himself, I believe she will be happier in Paradise than in a world to whose griefs and pleasures she is equally indifferent.” “How I hate that woman! How could she bear to make you unhappy? And yet it is to that unhappiness that I owe my happiness!” Her tears suddenly ceased. “Caroline, let us hope,” cried Roger. “Do not be frightened by anything that priest may have said to you. Though my wife’s confessor is a man to be feared for his power in the congregation, if he should try to blight our happiness I would find means--” “What could you do?” “We would go to Italy: I would fly--”