"No, no, my nephew, let us talk a while. Such a night of adventure we have not had for many a year, not since the smugglers came across from Chateau, with the military after them. That was excitement, if you like. But this affair at La Folie was not so bad. You choose a good night for the fire, my nephew. What?" Pamphile stared at the old hag. "I?" he said. "I choose? But no, my wise aunt, it was the good God. That thunderbolt, you know." "Bah!" she sneered. "It made a big noise, the thunder; knocked a few stones off the chimney, put Jean Baptiste to sleep, but that was all. No, my friend, the good God had nothing to do with it." "But the fire----" "Started an hour later, in the wood-pile near the stove." "My dear aunt, you seem to be well informed." "Informed? I was there and I saw. I am a light sleeper, you must know; and when you, my dear guest and nephew, left my house in the dead of night, I became curious, as any woman would, followed at a safe distance, and saw everything--saw you strike the match, even. I tell you, my western friend, that it is better to confide in people, especially one’s near relations. Too much secrecy is bad for the health, leading to serious trouble, in which case one might have to call in the physician, that is to say, the police. Eh, my dear nephew?" "Ah, my lovely aunt, you have the advantage of me, I must confess, in these days of enlightenment, of emancipation. If only the good old days could come again I would know what to do. I would have you drowned as a witch, or burned, perhaps. Yes, that would be better--a little taste of Hell in advance, a sample, as it were, of what is to follow. Eh, my angel aunt?" "Pamphile," said the old witch, "you are a devil, and I love you for it. In the old days at Chateau there were lovers like you, brave boys, fearing neither God nor man. Usually man is more to be feared, but in the end God and the devil. But the devil amuses one for a time. If only I could be young again! But tell me, Pamphile, my friend--why did you not let him die?" "Well, my aunt, that is a hard question. Why did I not let him be burned to a cinder? How do I know? I thought of it, to be sure; and I said to myself: ’There, Pamphile, you are avenged. Be satisfied.’ But what revenge can one take on an enemy dead? No, it was better that Monseigneur should see his castle burn to the ground. A good revenge, my precious aunt. First you take away one’s love, then one’s property, then the ambition that makes life worth living; and after that, to finish, you give the _coup de grace_. That was one of my reasons, perhaps.