D'Alvimar, who understood or guessed his purpose, remained behind and waited for him in the little cemetery which surrounded the church, fully determined, after the examination he had made of his face, to address him and form an alliance with him. He stood there, musing upon his destiny, a problem by which he was constantly beset, and which the sight of the scattered gravestones seemed to render more irritating to him than usual. D'Alvimar believed in the church, but he did not believe in the true God. The church was to him above all else an institution of discipline and terror, the instrument of torture of which a ferocious and implacable God made use to establish his authority. If he had given his mind to it, he would readily have persuaded himself that the merciful Jesus was stained with heresy. The idea of death was abhorrent to him. He dreaded hell, and--a natural result of evil beliefs--he could not make his life conform to his rigid principles. He had no ardor except for discussion; when alone with himself, he found that his heart was dry, his mind overstrained and confused by worldly ambition. In vain did he reproach himself therefor. The thought of damnation could not be fruitful of good, and terror is not remorse. "So I must die!" he said to himself, gazing at the turf-covered mounds, like furrows in a field, which covered the graves of those obscure villagers; "die, it may be, penniless and without power, like the wretched serfs who have not left even a name to be inscribed on these little crosses of rotten wood! Neither influence nor renown in this world! Wrath, disappointment, useless labors, useless efforts--crimes, perhaps!--and all to reach the threshold of eternity, having never been able to forward the glory of the church in this life, and having failed to earn my pardon in the other!" By dint of thinking about destiny, he persuaded himself that it was the influence of the devil that had ruined his. He thought for an instant of confessing to this priest, whose eyes had seemed to him to glow with intelligence; but he was afraid to confide to any person the secrets which were consuming his life and his repose. Engrossed by these black thoughts, he saw Monsieur Poulain enter the cemetery at last, and, coming toward him, salute him deferentially. The acquaintance was soon made. With the first words they exchanged, the two men felt that they were equally ambitious. The rector invited D'Alvimar to breakfast with him. "I can offer you only a very scanty repast," he said; "my cuisine does not resemble that at the château. I have neither vassals nor valets at my beck and call to serve as purveyors for my table. So that my frugal fare will enable you to retain sufficient appetite to do honor to the marquis's, whose bell will not ring for two or three hours to come."