“The interests of human justice,” said the rector, “are not those for which I act. I am ignorant of how the restitution will be made, but I know it will take place. In sending for me to minister to my parishioner, Monseigneur placed me under the conditions which give to rectors in their parishes the same powers which Monseigneur exercises in his diocese,--barring, of course, all questions of discipline and ecclesiastical obedience.” “That is true,” said the bishop. “But the question here is how to obtain from the condemned man voluntary information which may enlighten justice.” “My mission is to win souls to God,” said Monsieur Bonnet. Monsieur de Grancour shrugged his shoulders slightly, but his colleague, the Abbe Dutheil nodded his head in sign of approval. “Tascheron is no doubt endeavoring to shield some one, whom the restitution will no doubt bring to light,” said the _procureur-general_. “Monsieur,” replied the rector, “I know absolutely nothing which would either confute or justify your suspicion. Besides, the secrets of confession are inviolable.” “Will the restitution really take place?” asked the man of law. “Yes, monsieur,” replied the man of God. “That is enough for me,” said the _procureur-general_, who relied on the police to obtain the required information; as if passions and personal interests were not tenfold more astute than the police. The next day, this being market-day, Jean-Francois Tascheron was led to execution in a manner to satisfy both the pious and the political spirits of the town. Exemplary in behavior, pious and humble, he kissed the crucifix, which Monsieur Bonnet held to his lips with a trembling hand. The unhappy man was watched and examined; his glance was particularly spied upon; would his eyes rove in search of some one in the crowd or in a house? His discretion did, as a matter of fact, hold firm to the last. He died as a Christian should, repentant and absolved. The poor rector was carried away unconscious from the foot of the scaffold, though he did not even see the fatal knife. During the following night, on the high-road fifteen miles from Limoges, Denise, though nearly exhausted by fatigue and grief, begged her father to let her go again to Limoges and take with her Louis-Marie Tascheron, one of her brothers. “What more have you to do in that town?” asked her father, frowning. “Father,” she said, “not only must we pay the lawyer who defended him, but we must also restore the money which he has hidden.” “You are right,” said the honest man, pulling out a leathern pouch he carried with him. “No, no,” said Denise, “he is no longer your son. It is not for those who cursed him, but for those who loved him, to reward the lawyer.” “We will wait for you at Havre,” said the father. Denise and her brother returned to Limoges before daylight. When the police heard, later, of this return they were never able to discover where the brother and sister had hidden themselves.