"The letter ?" "It is here, Monsieur Albert," replied the Abbe, who was commonplace, and could not see himself as he wished others to see him.

There was only one Abbe Touvent, for morning or afternoon, for church or fete, for the chateau or the cottage.

There were a dozen Albert de Chantonnays, fierce or tender, gay or sad, a poet or a soldier--a light persifleur, who had passed through the mill, and had emerged hard and shining, or a young man of soul, capable of high ideals.

To-night, he was the politician--the conspirator--quick of eye, curt of speech.
He held out his hand for the letter.
"You are to read it, as Monsieur le Marquis instructs me, Monsieur Albert," hazarded the Abbe, touching the breast pocket of his soutane, where Monsieur de Gemosac's letter lay hidden, "to those assembled." "But, surely, I am to read it to myself first," was the retort; "or else how can I give it proper value ?".