ts of devices were
employed, to revive and excite the anger of the marshal against
the renegade by reminding him of all the evil contrived by the Abbe
d'Aigrigny against him and his family. The marshal was reproached with
cowardice for not taking vengeance on this priest, the persecutor of his
wife and children, the insolent mocker at his misfortunes."

"And from whom do you suspect these letters to come, father?"

"I cannot tell--it is that which turns one's brain. They must come from
the enemies of the marshal, and he has no enemies but the black-gowns."

"But, father, since these letters are to excite his anger against the
Abbe d'Aigrigny, they can hardly have been written by priests."

"That is what I have said to myself."

"But what, then, can be their object?"

"Their object? oh, it is too plain!" cried Dagobert. "The marshal is
hasty, ardent; he has a thousand reasons to desire vengeance on the
renegade. But he cannot do himself justice, and the other sort of
justice fails him. Then what does he do? He endeavors to forget, he
forgets. But every day there comes to him an insolent letter, to provoke
and exasperate his legitimate hatred, by mockeries and insults. Devil
take me! my head is not the weakest--but, at such a game, I should go
mad."

"Father, such a plot would be horrible, and only worthy of hell!"

"And that is not all."

"What more?"

"The marshal has received other letters; those he has not shown me--but,
after he had read the first, he remained like a man struck motionless,
and murmured to himself: 'They do not even respect that--oh! it is too
much--too much!'--And, hiding his face in his hands he wept."

"The marshal wept!" cried the blacksmith, hardly able to believe what he
heard.

"Yes," answered Dagobert, "he wept like a child."

"And what could these letters contain, father?"

"I did not venture to ask him, he appeared so miserable and dejected."

"But thus harassed and tormented incessantly, the marshal must lead a
wretched life."

"And his poor little girls too! he sees them grow sadder and sadder,
without being able to guess the cause. And the death of his father,
killed almost in his arms! Perhaps, you will think all this enough; but,
no! I am sure there is something still more painful behind. Lately, you
would hardly know the marshal. He is irritable about nothing, and falls
into such fits of passion, that--" After a moment's hesitation, the
soldier resumed: "I way tell