he made me as supple as a glove.
Would you like to know how, madame?"

Farrabesche and Madame Graslin looked at each other, not explaining to
themselves their mutual curiosity.

"Well," resumed the poor liberated convict, "when he left me the first
time, and Catherine had gone with him to show the way, I was left alone.
I then felt within my soul a freshness, a calmness, a sweetness, I had
never known since childhood. It was like the happiness my poor Catherine
had given me. The love of this dear man had come to _seek me_; that,
and his thought for me, for my future, stirred my soul to its depths;
it changed me. A light broke forth in my being. As long as he was there,
speaking to me, I resisted. That's not surprising; he was a priest,
and we bandits don't eat of their bread. But when I no longer heard
his footsteps nor Catherine's, oh! I was--as he told me two days
later--enlightened by divine grace. God gave me thenceforth strength
to bear all,--prison, sentence, irons, parting; even the life of the
galleys. I believed in his word as I do in the Gospel; I looked upon
my sufferings as a debt I was bound to pay. When I seemed to suffer too
much, I looked across ten years and saw my home in the woods, my little
Benjamin, my Catherine. He kept his word, that good Monsieur Bonnet. But
one thing was lacking. When at last I was released, Catherine was not
at the gate of the galleys; she was not on the common. No doubt she has
died of grief. That is why I am always sad. Now, thanks to you, I shall
have useful work to do; I can employ both body and soul,--and my boy,
too, for whom I live."

"I begin to understand how it is that the rector has changed the
character of this whole community," said Madame Graslin.

"Nothing can resist him," said Farrabesche.

"Yes, yes, I know it!" replied Veronique, hastily, making a gesture of
farewell to her keeper.

Farrabesche withdrew. Veronique remained alone on the terrace for a good
part of the day, walking up and down in spite of a fine rain which fell
till evening. When her face was thus convulsed, neither her mother nor
Aline dared to interrupt her. She did not notice in the dusk that her
mother was talking in the salon to Monsieur Bonnet; the old woman,
anxious to put an end to this fresh attack of dreadful depression, sent
little Francis to fetch her. The child took his mother's hand and led
her in. When she saw the rector she gave a start of surprise in which
there seemed to