These old friends, if, indeed, under such conditions as theirs men can ever be termed friends, had not met since they sat together, many years before, beneath the limes at Versailles, when the younger had not yet taken orders, and the elder, although he accepted the title of Abbé, neither led the life of an ecclesiastic, nor admitted openly that he was in any way amenable to the discipline observed by the Jesuits. Now, both were ostensibly votaries of the Order. Its impress might be seen in their measured steps, their thoughtful faces, and their downward looks, taking no heed of the peaceful scene around: the level marshes, the ripening orchards, the lazy cattle knee-deep in rich wet herbage, the peasant’s punt pushed drowsily and sluggishly along the glistening ditches that divided his fields, the mellow warmth of the autumnal sun, and the swarms of insects wheeling in his slanting, reddening rays. They saw, or at least they heeded, none of this—deep in conversation, their subject seemed of engrossing interest; yet each looked only by stealth in the other’s face, withdrawing his glance and bending it on the path at his feet the instant it met his friend’s. At times neither spoke for several paces, and it was during such periods of silence that the expression of habitual mistrust and constraint became painfully apparent. In the elder man it was softened and smoothed over, partly by effort, partly by the acquired polish of society, but the younger seemed to chafe with repressed ardour, like a rash horse, impatient but generous, fretting under the unaccustomed curb. After a longer pause than usual, this one spoke with more energy than he had yet displayed. “I only wish to do _right_. What is it to me, Malletort, that the world should misjudge me, or that I should sink in the esteem of those whose good opinion I value? I only wish to do right, I say, always in compliance with the orders of my superiors.” The other smiled. “In the first place,” said he, “you must not call me Malletort, at least not within so short a distance of those college chimneys; but we will let that pass; for though a novice, still you are worthy of speedy promotion, and it is only for ‘novices’ in the first period of probation that our rules are so exacting. You wish to do right. So be it. You have done very wrong hitherto, or you might have been a ‘provincial’ by this time. Well, my son, confession is the first step to amendment, and then―” He paused, and bit his lip. It was difficult to keep down the old sarcastic smile, but he did it, and looked gravely in the other’s face. “Penance!” replied the younger. “I know it too well. Ah! _mea culpa! mea culpa!_ I have been a great sinner. I have repented in sackcloth and ashes. I have confessed freely. I wish, yes, I repeat I _wish_ to atone humbly, and yet, oh! for mercy’s sake, tell me, is there no way but this?”