F.' 'What do they stand for?' asked
this demon Barlow. And when the patriotic Tommy hesitated for an answer,
the preceptor exclaimed with ineffable contempt, 'Race de fous'! It is
no wonder, then, that this foe of his fatherland feared to receive a
letter openly addressed; rather he would slink out under cover of night
and seek his correspondence at the poste restante, like a guilty lover
or a British tourist.
The Chateau de Presles was built for his reception. It was haunted by a
secret, which none dare murmur in the remotest garret. There was no more
than a whisper of murder in the air, but the Marquis shuddered when his
wife's eye frowned upon him. True, the miserable Menaldo had disappeared
from his seminary ten years since, but threats of disclosure were
uttered continually, and respectability might only be purchased by a
profound silence. Here was the Abbe's most splendid opportunity, and he
seized it with all the eagerness of a greedy temperament. The Marquise,
a wealthy peasant, who was rather at home on the wild hill-side than in
her stately castle, became an instant prey to his devilish intrigue.
The governess, an antic old maid of fifty-seven, whose conversation was
designed to bring a blush to the cheek of the most hardened dragoon,
was immediately on terms of so frank an intimacy that she flung bread
pellets at him across the table, and joyously proposed, if we may
believe the priest on his oath, to set up housekeeping with him, that
they might save expense.
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