"Mademoiselle Plouernel consigned to the Prison of the Repentant Women! Oh, my dear boy, you can not mean that!" said Abbot Boujaron with devout unction. "No; no; that is out of the question! But what is sensible and proper is that your sister take the veil, and that the share of the inheritance due her according to the custom of Brittany, be assigned to the community that may receive the great sinner, to aid it in exercising its charitable works. Besides, believe me, my dear boy," added the Abbot, smiling, "it is not necessary that our sinner be confined in the Prison of the Repentant Women in order to be treated with the uttermost rigor, and be severely chastised in the flesh and in her pride--for the salvation of her soul." The Count of Plouernel lent but an inattentive ear to the prelate's words, and resumed in a towering rage: "My sister in love with some vulgar fellow! My marriage, upon which I raised so many hopes, thwarted by the ill-will of the wretched creature! Malediction! Let her tremble before my anger!" "My dear boy," said the Abbot to the exasperated Count, "there is a way of putting an end to these perplexities. Demand to-day, instantly, from Bertha a categoric answer--yes, or no--on her marriage with the Marquis." "Zounds! Abbot--I know beforehand she will say neither yes nor no." "That may be. But after you shall have urged her a last time, entreated, implored her in the name of your most cherished interests to decide this very day, would not her persistence in further delays prove to you that she is determined not to marry the Marquis, and that it is certain she is sacrificing him to some unworthy love?" "In that event--malediction! a curse upon her! A dungeon cell will overcome her resistance." "My dear boy, we must not curse anybody," remarked the Abbot piously; "but it is necessary that, without flinching, you perform the duties that devolve upon you, the head of your illustrious house. It is urgent that to-morrow, yes, not later than to-morrow, you prevent your sister by prompt and rigorous measures from dishonoring your name and herself. You have plenty of cells and dungeons." "I swear to God!" cried the Count of Plouernel, "if Bertha refuses to decide to accept the marriage--I shall be pitiless. Yes, and to-morrow we shall take the steps that may be necessary to safeguard our honor." The Count was interrupted in the flow of his threats by the entrance of a lackey who said to Madam Tremblay: "Monsieur the Marquis of Chateauvieux has presented himself at the door, and requests to be admitted before madam. May I introduce him, madam?" "Beg Monsieur the Marquis to enter," answered the Marchioness of Tremblay. "The dear colonel! How happy we are that he comes to pay us a visit!" And immediately after the lackey withdrew she added hurriedly: "Raoul, not a word to the Marquis about what we have been saying, before we have heard from Bertha."