The sentry--the same young man who had been disciplined by Babet--received the priest with respect; his instructions had not mentioned Père Ambroise, and the stout, black-robed figure ambled placidly up the gravel path and entered by way of the kitchen. This was empty, for Babet had deserted her fortress for the moment to wait on her young mistress. The priest proceeded through the house and was greeted at the stairs by Truffe, who knew him. He climbed up in a leisurely way, panting at each step, and, entering the sitting-room, found Rosaline and her faithful attendant. The young girl hailed his entrance with relief and hope, and something like life came back into her white face. Père Ambroise was touched by her evident confidence in his good-will, and seating himself comfortably, he dismissed Babet with a placid air of authority that sent her fuming to the kitchen, where she resumed her task of heating the fire-irons. She was determined not to be taken unawares, and the sentry--perfectly acquainted with her occupation--kept his distance and bided his time. Meanwhile, in response to a few well-directed questions, Rosaline told her story, which was substantially the same as the one already recited by le Bossu. A man less keen than Père Ambroise would have detected her resolution in her manner, and he was not unprepared for her answer when he asked her what she intended to do. She was standing in front of him, her hands clasped loosely before her, and her head erect, but her face was like marble, white and still. “I have no choice, _mon père_,” she said, in a low voice; “no one cares for a heretic. It is my duty to save my grandmother. I cannot let her die for my happiness! _Mon Dieu!_ what a monster I should be! I must consent to M. de Baudri’s terms, and then--” she paused, drawing a deep breath and her clear blue eyes looked out, away toward the grim mountains of the north, “and then I know that the _bon Dieu_ will release me. He will send me death--sweet death--for my bridegroom!” Père Ambroise regarded her thoughtfully. For his times, he was a liberal man, and he did not immediately foresee hell fires. He saw only a pure and defenceless girl, and his heart smote him. “The _bon Dieu_ is offended with you for heresy, Rosaline,” he remarked calmly; “that is the cause of your misfortunes.” Rosaline looked at him searchingly; she had long ago weighed Père Ambroise and found him wanting. “He is my Judge,” she replied, and closed her lips firmly. It was not the hour for religious controversy, and the priest knew it; he pursed up his lips and was silent. But she had a purpose at heart, and not even his frowns discouraged it. “Père Ambroise,” she said, “I want to go into Nîmes now--at once--to see my grandmother. I will consent to nothing until I do--you can get this favor for me--I ask nothing else, but oh, do this for me!”