When the priest had first read Lucienne’s appealing letter, he had said, “This must not go on.” After his stormy interview with Louis he had pondered the situation deeply, not indeed because it involved two aching hearts—for suffering or joy were to him only the accompaniments of life, not life itself—but because of the wrong that Gilbert was doing. Now he saw that, if it were the will of God, Gilbert’s love, just because it had come to mean so much to him, might be the saving of him . . . if he would renounce it. For at last the real reason of the change in Château-Foix was fully apparent to him. The cold, passionless man was living at fever-heat, devoured with a love begotten of jealousy, filled with the lust of possession; he had his motive force now. It was this overbearing spirit, this determination to possess, this stiff-neckedness which was so well hidden that only at a crisis could the outside world perceive it—it was this that must be slain. If Gilbert’s passion could be diverted, then elements which, unchecked, would go on to complete the ruin of a character might be the means of the saving of a soul. Torn and beaten down in the struggle Gilbert would be more receptive than at any other period of his life. There are some, as M. des Graves knew, who will never behold the gate of heaven save from the very dust of earth. But the stakes were terribly high. If he failed, he lost for ever Gilbert’s love and such influence as he had with him. If he won, it would mean horrible suffering to the being whom he loved best on earth. * * * * * * It was the same evening after supper, a meal at which they had spoken little. The Marquis had been sitting idly in a low chair before the fire, his eyes half closed, listening to the unceasing scratching of the priest’s pen. At last the sound stopped, and the Curé, turning suddenly in his chair, began to address him. “Gilbert, I want to say something to you to-night.” Château-Foix opened his eyes and regarded the speaker attentively. He seemed a little startled. “You know,” continued the priest, looking down at what he had just written, “that there is very little doubt of the peasants coming and asking you to lead them if war breaks out.” “I do know it,” said the Marquis. There was silence for a few moments; then M. des Graves began again. “You have lived among these people all your life, you are their natural leader, and they respect and trust you.” “Yes,” assented Gilbert; “they respect me, but they do not love me. I suppose I could not expect it otherwise, and yet I have given up a good deal for them.” “They cannot understand you,” said M. des Graves shortly. Again there was silence. “Tell me,” said the priest at length—“all these years I have never asked you to give me a reason, but I ask it now—why cannot you accept the Catholic faith?”