"To describe my father's grief and the cries of the grooms would be impossible; but my uncle's despair was indescribable--kneeling by my side, removing my clothes with a trembling hand, covering me with tears and caresses, his every word was a fervent prayer. My father was obliged to console him, but to all his consolations and caresses he answered not. "They sent for the first surgeon at Nantes, who pronounced me in great danger. My uncle begged my mother's pardon all day long; and we remarked that, during my illness, he had quite changed his mode of life; instead of drinking and hunting with the officers--instead of going on fishing expeditions, of which he was so fond--he never left my pillow. "The fever lasted six weeks, and the illness nearly four months; but I was saved, and retained no trace of the accident. When I went out for the first time, my uncle gave me his arm; but when the walk was over, he took leave of us with tears in his eyes. "'Where are you going, Crysogon?' asked my father in astonishment. "'I made a vow,' replied the good man, 'that if our child recovered, I would turn Carthusian, and I go to fulfill it.' "This was a new grief. My father and my mother shed tears; I hung on my uncle's neck, and begged him not to leave us; but the viscount was a man who never broke a promise or a resolution. Our tears and prayers were vain. "'My brother,' said he, 'I did not know that God sometimes deigns to reveal Himself to man in acts of mystery. I doubted, and deserve to be punished; besides, I do not wish to lose my salvation in the pleasures of this life.' "At these words the viscount embraced me again, mounted his horse, and disappeared. He went to the Carthusian monastery at Morlaix. Two years afterward, fasts, macerations, and grief had made of this bon vivant, this joyous companion, this devoted friend, a premature skeleton. At the end of three years he died, leaving me all his wealth." "Diable! what a frightful tale," said Du Couëdic; "but the old woman forgot to tell you that breaking your leg would double your fortune." "Listen," said Pontcalec, more gravely than ever. "Ah! it is not finished," said Talhouet. "We are only at the commencement." "Continue, we are listening." "You have all heard of the strange death of the Baron de Caradec, have you not?" "Our old college friend at Nantes," said Montlouis, "who was found murdered ten years ago in the forest of Chateaubriant?" "Yes. Now listen; but remember that this is a secret which till this moment has been only known to me, and which even now must go no further than ourselves." The three Bretons, who were deeply interested, gave the required promises. "Well," said Pontcalec, "this college friendship of which Montlouis speaks had undergone some change between Caradec and myself, on account of a rivalry. We loved the same woman, and I was loved by her.