he thoughtfully. "It is
but fitting that, being dead, honour and reverence should be shown his
body."

"Then let those who have themselves been honoured by the Condillacs
honour this dead Condillac now. The Church is not of that number,
monsieur. Since the late Marquis's death the house of Condillac has been
in rebellion against us; our priests have been maltreated, our authority
flouted; they paid no tithes, approached no sacraments. Weary of their
ungodliness the Church placed its ban upon them under this ban it seems
they die. My heart grieves for them; but--"

He spread his hands, long and almost transparent in their leanness, and
on his face a cloud of sorrow rested.

"Nevertheless, Father," said Garnache, "twenty brothers of Saint Francis
shall bear the body home to Condillac, and you yourself shall head this
grim procession."

"I?" The monk shrank back before him, and his figure seemed to grow
taller. "Who are you, sir, that say to me what I shall do, the Church's
law despite?"

Garnache took the Abbot by the sleeve of his rough habit and drew him
gently towards the window. There was a persuasive smile on his lips and
in his keen eyes which the monk, almost unconsciously, obeyed.

"I will tell you," said Garnache, "and at the same time I shall seek to
turn you from your harsh purpose."

At the hour at which Monsieur de Garnache was seeking to persuade the
Abbot of Saint Francis of Cheylas to adopt a point of view more kindly
towards a dead man, Madame de Condillac was at dinner, and with her
was Valerie de La Vauvraye. Neither woman ate appreciably. The one was
oppressed by sorrow, the other by anxiety, and the circumstance that
they were both afflicted served perhaps to render the Dowager gentler in
her manner towards the girl.

She watched the pale face and troubled eyes of Valerie; she observed the
almost lifeless manner in which she came and went as she was bidden, as
though a part of her had ceased to exist, and that part the part that
matters most. It did cross her mind that in this condition mademoiselle
might the more readily be bent to their will, but she dwelt not overlong
upon that reflection. Rather was her mood charitable, no doubt because
she felt herself the need of charity, the want of sympathy.

She was tormented by fears altogether disproportionate to their cause.
A hundred times she told herself that no ill could befall Marius.
Florimond was a sick man, and were he otherwise, there w