He glanced up. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. The poor old imbecile! Why, this child was a firebrand, a wrecker, if ever he had seen one; and the worst kind because she was unconscious of her gifts. “Jacques is wounded and we are arrested by this imbecile of a sergeant. Sated, he rolled off her body and retired to his quarters. ‘For once, you’re talking like a sensible man. Your history, your actions, nay, your very thoughts are better known to me than to your spiritual adviser. “Fine.
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