stined to the priesthood, the presumptive heir of the
house of Herouville that Beauvouloir had never until now noticed the
resemblance between the fate of Etienne and that of Gabrielle. A sudden
idea which now came to him was inspired more by his devotion to those
two beings than by ambition.

His wife, in spite of his great skill, had died in child-bed leaving him
a daughter whose health was so frail that it seemed as if the mother
had bequeathed to her fruit the germs of death. Beauvouloir loved
his Gabrielle as old men love their only child. His science and his
incessant care had given factitious life to this frail creature, which
he cultivated as a florist cultivates an exotic plant. He had kept her
hidden from all eyes on his estate of Forcalier, where she was protected
against the dangers of the time by the general good-will felt for a man
to whom all owed gratitude, and whose scientific powers inspired in the
ignorant minds of the country-people a superstitious awe.

By attaching himself to the house of Herouville, Beauvouloir had
increased still further the immunity he enjoyed in the province, and had
thwarted all attempts of his enemies by means of his powerful influence
with the governor. He had taken care, however, in coming to reside at
the castle, not to bring with him the flower he cherished in secret at
Forcalier, a domain more important for its landed value than for
the house then upon it, but with which he expected to obtain for his
daughter an establishment in conformity with his views. While promising
the duke a posterity and requiring his master's word of honor to approve
his acts, he thought suddenly of Gabrielle, of that sweet child whose
mother had been neglected and forgotten by the duke as he had also
neglected and forgotten his son Etienne.

He awaited the departure of his master before putting his plan into
execution; foreseeing that, if the duke became aware of it, the enormous
difficulties in the way would be from the first insurmountable.

Beauvouloir's house at Forcalier had a southern exposure on the slope of
one of those gentle hills which surround the vales of Normandy; a thick
wood shielded it from the north; high walls and Norman hedges and deep
ditches made the enclosure inviolable. The garden, descending by an easy
incline to the river which watered the valley, had a thick double hedge
at its foot, forming an natural embankment. Within this double hedge
wound a hidden path, led b