l thinks, my boy, and this increases his
irritation at such injustice."

"He should despise the wretches."

"But the anonymous letters!"

"Well, what of them, father?"

"You shall know all. A brave and honorable man like the marshal, when his
first movement of indignation was over, felt that to insult the renegade
disguised in the garb of a priest, would be like insulting an old man or
a woman. He determined therefore to despise him, and to forget him as
soon as possible. But then, almost every day, there came by the post
anonymous letters, in which all sorts 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