“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.”