"It is a letter from your father," continued Madame de Poitiers, "written a few days before his death, as you see. He complains of my cruelty, as you will see again; but he submits, as you may also see, reflecting that in any event I shall soon be his wife, and that the lover will have suffered disappointment only to make the husband's happiness more pure and perfect. Oh, the words of that letter, which is signed and dated, are in no wise equivocal! Am I not right? So you see, Monsieur de Montgommery, that it would have been criminal for you to think of Sister Bénie; for you are bound by no tie of blood to her who is now the spouse of Jesus Christ. And in saving you from such impiety, I hope that I have acquitted my debt to you, and have more than repaid you for the bliss I enjoy in my solitude. We are quits now, Monsieur de Montgommery, and I have no more to say to you." Gabriel, while this bitter, mocking speech was being delivered, had finished reading the baleful but sacred letter. It left no room whatever for doubt. It was to Gabriel like the voice of his father rising from the tomb to make known the truth. When the wretched young man raised his wild, haggard eyes, he saw Diane de Castro lying unconscious before a _prie-Dieu_. He rushed instinctively toward her; but the heavy iron bars arrested his steps. As he turned back he saw Diane de Poitiers, and upon her lips was playing a smile of placid contentment. Mad with grief, he took two steps toward her with uplifted hand. But he stopped in terror at his own act; and beating his brow like an insane man, he cried simply,-- "Adieu, Diane! adieu!" and fled. If he had remained a second more, he could not have forborne to annihilate that blaspheming mother like the viper that she was! Outside the convent Jean Peuquoy was anxiously awaiting him. "Do not question me! Ask me nothing!" exclaimed Gabriel at once, in a frenzy of despair. And as honest Peuquoy gazed at him in sorrowful astonishment, he said more gently,-- "Forgive me! I fear I am almost mad. I cannot collect my thoughts, you see. It is to avoid the necessity of thinking that I propose to go, to fly, to Paris. Go with me, if you will, my friend, as far as the gate where I left my horse. But, in God's name, talk about yourself; say nothing of me or my affairs!" The worthy weaver, as much to comply with Gabriel's wish as to try to distract his thoughts, went on to tell how Babette was marvellously well, and had recently presented him with a young Peuquoy,--a splendid fellow; how their brother Pierre had established himself in business as an armorer at St. Quentin; and how, only the month before, they had had news from Martin-Guerre, by a Picardy trooper returning home, and had learned that he was still happy with his reformed Bertrande. But it must be confessed that Gabriel, who was, as it were, made blind and deaf by his grief, did not understand and only partly heard this joyous narration.