to be gratified by a tale of ambitious
proportions, and the spectacle of the narrator sticking fast in the
midst. But I will tell him the title--the 'Priest's Pupil.'"

"Bah!" said he, the swarthy flush again dyeing his dark cheek. "The
good old father could not have chosen a worse subject; it is his weak
point. But what of the 'Priest's Pupil?'"

"Oh! many things."

"You may as well define _what_ things. I mean to know."

"There was the pupil's youth, the pupil's manhood;--his avarice, his
ingratitude, his implacability, his inconstancy. Such a bad pupil,
Monsieur!--so thankless, cold-hearted, unchivalrous, unforgiving!

"Et puis?" said he, taking a cigar.

"Et puis," I pursued, "he underwent calamities which one did not
pity--bore them in a spirit one did not admire--endured wrongs for
which one felt no sympathy; finally took the unchristian revenge of
heaping coals of fire on his adversary's head."

"You have not told me all," said he.

"Nearly all, I think: I have indicated the heads of Pere Silas's
chapters."

"You have forgotten one-that which touched on the pupil's lack of
affection--on his hard, cold, monkish heart."

"True; I remember now. Pere Silas _did_ say that his vocation was
almost that of a priest--that his life was considered consecrated."

"By what bonds or duties?"

"By the ties of the past and the charities of the present."

"You have, then, the whole situation?"

"I have now told Monsieur all that was told me."

Some meditative minutes passed.

"Now, Mademoiselle Lucy, look at me, and with that truth which I
believe you never knowingly violate, answer me one question. Raise your
eyes; rest them on mine; have no hesitation; fear not to trust me--I am
a man to be trusted."

I raised my eyes.

"Knowing me thoroughly now--all my antecedents, all my
responsibilities--having long known my faults, can you and I still be
friends?"

"If Monsieur wants a friend in me, I shall be glad to have a friend in
him."

"But a close friend I mean--intimate and real--kindred in all but
blood. Will Miss Lucy be the sister of a very poor, fettered, burdened,
encumbered man?"

I could not answer him in words, yet I suppose I _did_ answer him; he
took my hand, which found comfort, in the shelter of his. _His_
friendship was not a doubtful, wavering benefit--a cold, distant
hope--a sentiment so brittle as not to bear the weight of a finger: I
at once felt (or _thought_ I felt) its support like