Somewhat surprised, I followed the servant out of the room into the great hall, and desired him to bid the stranger attend me there. In a few minutes, a small, dark man, dressed between gentility and meanness, made his appearance. He greeted me with great respect, and presented a letter, which, he said, he was charged to deliver into my own hands, “with,” he added in a low tone, “a special desire that none should, till I had carefully read it, be made acquainted with its contents.” I was not a little startled by this request; and, withdrawing to one of the windows, broke the seal. A letter, enclosed in the envelope, in the Abbe’s own handwriting, was the first thing that met my eyes. At that instant the Abbe himself rushed into the hall. He cast one hasty look at the messenger, whose countenance evinced something of surprise and consternation at beholding him; and, hastening up to me, grasped my hand vehemently, and, while his eye dwelt upon the letter I held, cried, “Do not read it--not a word--not a word: there is poison in it!” And so saying, he snatched desperately at the letter. I detained it from him with one hand, and pushing him aside with the other, said,-- “Pardon me, Father, directly I have read it you shall have that pleasure,--not till then!” and, as I said this, my eye falling upon the letter discovered my own name written in two places. My suspicions were aroused. I raised my eyes to the spot where the messenger had stood, with the view of addressing some question to him respecting his employer, when, to my surprise, I perceived he was already gone; I had no time, however, to follow him. “Boy,” said the Abbe, gasping for breath, and still seizing me with his lean, bony hand,--“boy, give me that letter instantly; I charge you not to disobey me.” “You forget yourself, Sir,” said I, endeavouring to shake him off, “you forget yourself: there is no longer between us the distinction of pupil and teacher; and if you have not yet learned the respect due to my station, suffer me to tell you that it is time you should.” “Give me that letter, I beseech you,” said Montreuil, changing his voice from anger to supplication; “I ask your pardon for my violence: the letter does not concern you but me; there is a secret in those lines which you see are in my handwriting that implicates my personal safety. Give it me, my dear, dear son: your own honour, if not your affection for me, demands that you should.” I was staggered. His violence had confirmed my suspicions, but his gentleness weakened them. “Besides,” thought I, “the handwriting _is his_; and even if my life depended upon reading the letter of another, I do not think my honour would suffer me to do so against his consent.” A thought struck me,-- “Will you swear,” said I, “that this letter does not concern me?” “Solemnly,” answered the Abbe, raising his eyes. “Will you swear that I am not even mentioned in it?” “Upon peril of my soul, I will.”