wine before he drank it, and all his movements were deliberate and comfortable. His placidity goaded M. de Baudri to the verge of murder. “You cannot marry a heretic, my son,” Père Ambroise remarked pleasantly; “therefore you must either allow her to go to her fate--which, by the way, is of your preparing--or wait until she is converted.” “_Dame!_ do you take me for a fool?” exclaimed his companion. “How long have you been at this hopeful business of conversion?” “Only since I have known her to be a heretic,” the priest replied composedly. “_Sacristi!_ convert a heretic!” de Baudri laughed; “how many are ever converted?” “Large numbers--in some circumstances,” Père Ambroise said, with a broad smile; “’tis said that Du Chayla had a basement full of converts when their misguided friends arose and murdered him at Pont-de-Montvert; a poor requital for his zeal, monsieur. As for myself,”--he waved his fat hands,--“I am a man of peace, and I have ever labored to save these misguided people from violence.” M. de Baudri was leaning his elbow on the table, staring gloomily at the floor. “_Mère de Dieu!_” he said bitterly; “they are all only fit for hanging.” “Perhaps you would prefer to hang mademoiselle,” his companion remarked, refilling his glass cautiously, for he did not wish to disturb his brain with the fumes of liquor. M. de Baudri looked at him darkly. “I do her great honor in offering to marry her,” he said harshly. Père Ambroise nodded his head approvingly, and took a sip of wine. “Assuredly,” he said; “so great an honor that I am inclined to prevent you. A true son of the Church should not wed a heretic. The proper destination for her is a convent.” The younger man swore under his breath. “You old fox, you,” he exclaimed, “you do not want me to marry the girl--I believe you want her yourself!” Père Ambroise turned his eyes piously toward heaven. “The saints forbid!” he murmured. “You have an unbridled tongue, _mon fils_, and deserve discipline for offering an insult to one in holy orders.” The officer laughed. “_Dame_, you old rogue!” he said, “do you fat fathers take us for fools? Hark!” he added sharply, pausing to listen, “what is that? I heard the dog bark.” “Rosaline’s poodle,” replied the priest, undisturbed. M. de Baudri was suspicious. “Have you got her secure?” he demanded imperiously. “Absolutely secure,” retorted his companion, indifferently; “my servants are faithful, and her door is fastened by an oaken bar too strong for two women to force. Compose yourself, _mon fils_; you consented to this respite; she was to have until eight to-morrow morning for reflection, and she has reason enough to make good use of the time. Her grandmother is dead and she has no defender but me. She will not resist my authority, but you take a strange way to propitiate me and obtain my good offices.” M. de Baudri gnawed his lip with a lowering expression on his face.