He had not the trouble of going all the way thither; for he saw him in the village square talking with Bellinde, and had an opportunity to examine him.
He was a man still young, with a bilious, wheedling, treacherous face. Probably his interest in temporal affairs was as keen as D'Alvimar's; for he had no sooner spied that grave and fashionably dressed stranger coming from the church, than his only thought was to wonder who he could be.
He knew already that a new guest had arrived at the manor-house the night before, for he had little other occupation than to make inquiries about the marquis's doings; but how could a man, so devout as this early visit of D'Alvimar's to the church seemed to indicate, consort with so problematical a convert as Bois-Doré?
While he tried to obtain information on that subject from the housekeeper at the château, he noticed that he could not look up without finding the stranger's eyes fixed upon him.
He walked a few steps with Bellinde, in order to avoid his gaze, like one who did not wish to risk a salutation before he knew with whom he had to deal.
D'Alvimar, who understood or guessed his purpose, remained behind and waited for him in the little cemetery which surrounded the church, fully determined, after the examination he had made of his face, to address him and form an alliance with him.
He stood there, musing upon his destiny, a problem by which he was constantly beset, and which the sight of the scattered gravestones seemed to render more irritating to him than usual.
D'Alvimar believed in the church, but he did not believe in the true God. The church was to him above all else an institution of discipline and terror, the instrument of torture of which a ferocious and implacable God made use to establish his authority. If he had given his mind to it, he would readily have persuaded himself that the merciful Jesus was stained with heresy.
The idea of death was abhorrent to him. He dreaded hell, and—a natural result of evil beliefs—he could not make his life conform to his rigid principles.
He had no ardor except for discussion; when alone with himself, he found that his heart was dry, his mind overstrained and confused by worldly ambition. In vain did he reproach himself therefor. The thought of damnation could not be fruitful of good, and terror is not remorse.