"Please tell me everything," he said. The Pere Anselme spread out his thin hands toward the warmth of the china, while he remained standing opposite his visitor. "The good God at last put it into the mind of the Lord Fordyce that our Dame d'Heronac has not been altogether happy of late--and upon my suggestion he questioned her as to the cause of this, and learned what I believe to be the truth--which you, sir, can corroborate--namely, that you are her husband and are obtaining the divorce not from desire, but from a motive of loyalty to your friend." "That is the case," assented Michael quietly, a sudden great joy in his heart. The priest was silent, so he went on: "And what does Lord Fordyce mean to do?--release her and give her back to me--or what, _mon Pere_?" "Is it necessary to ask?" and Pere Anselme lifted questioning and almost whimsical eyebrows. "Surely you must know that your friend is a gentleman!" "Yes, I know that--but it must mean the most awful suffering to him--poor, dear old Henry--Is he quite knocked out?" "The good God tries no one beyond his strength--he will find consolation. But, meanwhile, it will be well that you let me offer you the hospitality of my poor house for rest and refreshment"--here the old man made a courtly bow--"and when you have eaten and perhaps bathed, you can take the road to the Chateau of Heronac, where you will find Lord Fordyce by the garden wall, and he will perhaps take you to Madame Sabine. That is as he may think wisest--I believe she is quite unprepared. Of the reception you are likely to receive from her you are the best judge yourself." "It seems too good to be true!" cried Michael, suddenly covering his face with his hands. "We have all been through an awful time, _mon Pere_." "So it would seem. It is not the moment for me to tell you that you drew it all upon yourselves--since the good God has seen fit to restore you to happiness." "I drew it upon us," protested Michael. "You know the whole story, Father?" The old priest coughed slightly. "I know most of it, my son. In it, you do not altogether shine----" Michael got up from his chair, while he clasped his hands forcibly. "No, indeed, I do not--I know I have been an unspeakable brute--I have not the grain of an excuse to offer--and yet she has forgiven me. Women are certainly angels, are they not, _mon Pere_?" The Cure of Heronac sighed gently. "Angels when they love, and demons when they hate--of an unbalance--but a great charm. It lies with us men to decide the feather-weight which will make the scale go either way with them--to heaven or hell." Here the ancient housekeeper announced that coffee and rolls were ready for them in the other room, and the Pere Anselme led the way without further words.