And next morning after his Mass, in the privacy of his own room, M. des Graves again took out Lucienne’s letter. His coffee and rolls lay almost untouched at his elbow. Again he put the letter away, and fell to pacing up and down on the track which he was beginning to wear on the Marquise’s carpet. As he walked, he reflected on the girl whose pitiful confession he was beginning to know by heart, and on the mysterious ways of that providence which had set her in a position which she was not strong enough to fill. She was sweet, she was good, but she was not strong. And now he saw that Lucienne, not in herself remarkable, had come to be a kind of symbol in the lives of the two men who loved her; that the idea of her stood for more than she in her own person could ever be. Stranger still, it was the man who had trespassed in loving her at all who was the better for it; of the other he could not say that. For that Louis had gained nothing of ennoblement by his renunciation, necessary and just though it had been, the priest did not believe. But Gilbert—on what unrighteous path was his righteous claim impelling him? He thought of the bitter, determined line of his mouth last night; of the haunting anger and despair in the Vicomte’s eyes. Something must be done. But since he must proceed with the utmost caution, and since he was still in the dark as to the amount of Gilbert’s knowledge, he resolved on a course for him very unusual, and not a little repugnant. He rang. “Ask Monsieur le Vicomte, if he is up, whether he will be so good as to come and speak to me.” Louis was up; indeed, he looked as if he had had but little sleep. “You sent for me?” he asked, with an obvious surprise, as he came in. “Yes; I want to have a talk with you. Sit down there, if you will.” The priest waited until Louis had taken a chair and then sat down himself. “I want to ask you,” he said without preamble, “what is wrong between you and Gilbert?” A spasm passed over Louis’ face. “I can’t tell you that,” he answered hoarsely. “My son,” said the priest impressively, “it will really be best for all of us if you tell me the exact truth. Most of it I know already. Since the beginning of last November I have known that you loved Lucienne; for the last week I have known that Lucienne loves you. I know of your fatal acknowledgment of your passion; I know, too, thank God, how you have tried to undo the wrong you have done. I want to know now how far Gilbert is cognisant of all this.” Louis got up from his chair. “Ask him then,” he said, with dilated nostrils. Then he laughed, not pleasantly. “And better, ask him _how_ he knows it. He is able to inform you more graphically than I. Shall I tell him to come up?” “No,” replied the priest, without moving—unmoved, too, by his most unwonted rudeness. “No, I am asking you. My son, you must know that I am aware you have quarrelled.”