‘Home!’ echoed Berthier. ‘Where is your home? Not the Isle of Swallows. Your father is dead, you know that; and another farmer has taken the house. How stupid of the père André to put himself out of the world just when his daughter wanted a home!’ This brutal remark caused the girl’s tears to burst forth. ‘Home!’ continued the Intendant, approaching her; ‘this is henceforth your home. I offer you my wealth, my mansions, my servants, myself.’ He put his hand on her shoulder. She sprang from the touch, as though it had stung her. ‘Foolish maiden, not to accept such offers at once. You are in my power; you have nowhere to flee to; you have no relations to take your part against me. If I turn you out of my doors, do you know whither to go? No; you have no place to go to.’ ‘I have friends,’ she sobbed. ‘Name them.’ ‘I am sure Pauline Lebertre would give me shelter.’ ‘Who is Pauline Lebertre, may I ask?’ ‘The curé’s sister.’ ‘At La Couture?’ ‘Yes.’ M. Berthier clapped his fleshy hands together and laughed. ‘You are vastly mistaken,’ he said, ‘if you think that every house is open to you now. I lament to say it, but your presence in this château is likely somewhat to affect your credit with some good people. It is with unfeigned regret that I assure you that this charming mansion of mine is regarded with suspicion. It is even asserted that you left your father and home for the purpose of making your fortune here; that the idea so weighed on the good Matthias, that he committed suicide, and that therefore you are his murderer.’ Gabrielle leaned against a tree, with her face in her hands; she could not speak; shame, anguish, and disgust overwhelmed her. ‘Do you think that the sister of a curé would invite you to her house?’ ‘Monsieur, monsieur!’ she cried; ‘leave me, I pray.’