Up the long white road that crept zigzag through the Franciscans' vineyards rode the Parisian and his servant under the welcome sunshine of that November afternoon.
Garnache's face was gloomy and his eyes sad, for his thoughts were all of Valerie, and he was prey to a hundred anxieties regarding her.
They gained the heights at last, and Rabecque got down to beat with his whip upon the convent gates.
A lay-brother came to open, and in reply to Garnache's request that he might have a word with the Father Abbot, invited him to enter.
Through the cloisters about the great quadrangle, where a couple of monks, their habits girt high as their knees, were busy at gardeners' work, Garnache followed his conductor, and up the steps to the Abbot's chamber.
The master of the Convent' of Saint Francis of Cheylas a tall, lean man with an ascetic face, prominent cheekbones, and a nose not unlike Garnache's own--the nose of a man of action rather than of prayer--bowed gravely to this stalwart stranger, and in courteous accents begged to be informed in what he might serve him.
Hat in hand, Garnache took a step forward in that bare, scantily furnished little room, permeated by the faint, waxlike odour that is peculiar to the abode of conventuals.

Without hesitation he stated the reason of his visit.
"Father," said he, "a son of the house of Condillac met his end this morning at La Rochette." The monk's eyes seemed to quicken, as though his interest in the outer world had suddenly revived.
"It is the Hand of God," he cried.

"Their evil ways have provoked at last the anger of Heaven.

How did this unfortunate meet his death ?" Garnache shrugged his shoulders.
"De mortuis nil nisi bonum," said he.

His air was grave, his blue eyes solemn, and the Abbot had little cause to suspect the closeness with which that pair of eyes was watching him.