“Ah! dear me, what I am going to tell you will seem, I dare say, a trifle to you,--a mere bit of nonsense; but before the tribunal of conscience it was another thing. If you persist in wishing to share our work after hearing what I shall tell you, you will understand that the power of a sentiment is according to the nature of souls, and that a matter which would not in the least trouble a strong mind may very well torment the conscience of a weak Christian.” After a preface of this kind, the curiosity of the disciple of course knew no bounds. What could be the crime of the worthy soul whom Madame de la Chanterie called her _paschal lamb_? The thought crossed Godefroid’s mind that a book might be written on it, called “The Sins of a Sheep.” Sheep are sometimes quite ferocious towards grass and flowers. One of the tenderest republicans of those days was heard to assert that the best of human beings was cruel to something. But the kindly Alain!--he, who like my uncle Toby, wouldn’t crush a gnat till it had stung him twenty times,--that sweet soul to have been tortured by repentance! This reflection in Godefroid’s mind filled the pause made by the old man after saying, “Now listen to me!”--a pause he filled himself by pushing his cushion under Godefroid’s feet to share it with him. “I was then about thirty years of age,” he said. “It was the year ‘98, if I remember right,--a period when young men were forced to have the experience of men of sixty. One morning, a little before my breakfast hour, which was nine o’clock, my old housekeeper ushered in one of the few friends remaining to me after the Revolution. My first word was to ask him to breakfast. My friend--his name was Mongenod, a fellow about twenty-eight years of age--accepted, but he did so in an awkward manner. I had not seen him since 1793!” “Mongenod!” cried Godefroid; “why, that is--” “If you want to know the end before the beginning, how am I to tell you my history?” said the old man, smiling. Godefroid made a sign which promised absolute silence.