s one might regain all the lost time!

"Let us go to bed," at last said Guillaume, smiling. "It's silly of me to
weary you with all these things which don't concern you."

Pierre, in his excitement, was about to reveal his own heart and mind,
and the whole torturing battle within him. But a feeling of shame again
restrained him. His brother only knew him as a believing priest, faithful
to his faith. And so, without answering, he betook himself to his room.

On the following evening, about ten o'clock, while Guillaume and Pierre
sat reading in the study, the old servant entered to announce M. Janzen
and a friend. The friend was Salvat.

"He wished to see you," Janzen explained to Guillaume. "I met him, and
when he heard of your injury and anxiety he implored me to bring him
here. And I've done so, though it was perhaps hardly prudent of me."

Guillaume had risen, full of surprise and emotion at such a visit;
Pierre, however, though equally upset by Salvat's appearance; did not
stir from his chair, but kept his eyes upon the workman.

"Monsieur Froment," Salvat ended by saying, standing there in a timid,
embarrassed way, "I was very sorry indeed when I heard of the worry I'd
put you in; for I shall never forget that you were very kind to me when
everybody else turned me away."

As he spoke he balanced himself alternately on either leg, and
transferred his old felt hat from hand to hand.

"And so I wanted to come and tell you myself that if I took a cartridge
of your powder one evening when you had your back turned, it's the only
thing that I feel any remorse about in the whole business, since it may
compromise you. And I also want to take my oath before you that you've
nothing to fear from me, that I'll let my head be cut off twenty times if
need be, rather than utter your name. That's all that I had in my heart."

He relapsed into silence and embarrassment, but his soft, dreamy eyes,
the eyes of a faithful dog, remained fixed upon Guillaume with an
expression of respectful worship. And Pierre was still gazing at him
athwart the hateful vision which his arrival had conjured up, that of the
poor, dead, errand girl, the fair pretty child lying ripped open under
the entrance of the Duvillard mansion! Was it possible that he was there,
he, that madman, that murderer, and that his eyes were actually moist!

Guillaume, touched by Salvat's words, had drawn near and pressed his
hand. "I am well aware, Salvat," said he, "