Prosper had his way. But he did not see Vaillantcœur after he was carried home and put to bed in his cabin. Even if he had tried to do it, it would have been impossible. He could not see anybody. One of his eyes was entirely destroyed. The inflammation spread to the other, and all through the autumn he lay in his house, drifting along the edge of blindness, while Raoul lay in his house slowly getting well. The _curé_ went from one house to the other, but he did not carry any messages between them. If any were sent one way they were not received. And the other way, none were sent. Raoul did not speak of Prosper; and if one mentioned his name, Raoul shut his mouth and made no answer. To the _curé_, of course, it was a distress and a misery. To have a hatred like this unhealed, was a blot on the parish; it was a shame, as well as a sin. At last—it was already winter, the day before Christmas—the _curé_ made up his mind that he would put forth one more great effort. "Look you, my son," he said to Prosper, "I am going this afternoon to Raoul Vaillantcœur to make the reconciliation. You shall give me a word to carry to him. He shall hear it this time, I promise you. Shall I tell him what you have done for him, how you have cared for him?" "No, never," said Prosper, "you shall not take that word from me. It is nothing. It will make worse trouble. I will never send it." "What then?" said the priest. "Shall I tell him that you forgive him?" "No, not that," answered Prosper, "that would be a foolish word. What would that mean? It is not I who can forgive. I was the one who struck hardest. It was he that fell from the tower." "Well, then, choose the word for yourself. What shall it be? Come, I promise you that he shall hear it. I will take with me _M. le Notaire_, and the good man Girard, and the little Marie Antoinette. You shall hear an answer. What message?" "_Mon père_," said Prosper, slowly, "you shall tell him just this. I, Prosper Leclère, ask Raoul Vaillantcœur that he will forgive me for not fighting with him on the ground when he demanded it." Yes, the message was given in precisely those words. Marie Antoinette stood within the door, Bergeron and Girard at the foot of the bed, and the _curé_ spoke very clearly and firmly. Vaillantcœur rolled on his pillow and turned his face away. Then he sat up in bed, grunting a little with the pain in his shoulder, which was badly set. His black eyes snapped like the eyes of a wolverine in a corner. "Forgive?" he said, "no, never. He is a coward. I will never forgive!" A little later in the afternoon, when the rose of sunset lay on the snowy hills, some one knocked at the door of Leclère's house. "_Entrez!_" he cried. "Who is there? I see not very well by this light. Who is it?" "It is me," said 'Toinette, her cheeks rosier than the snow outside, "nobody but me. I have come to ask you about that new carriage—do you remember?" IV