to go and warm ourselves at the charcoal fires which the workmen keep
up all night, I have heard this name dying away on their lips at our
approach. But when they had recognised us and thoroughly satisfied
themselves that the ghosts of none of these robbers were hiding in our
midst, they would tell us in a whisper such stories as might make one's
hair stand on end, stories which I shall take good care not to pass on
to you, grieved as I am that they should ever have darkened and pained
my own memory.

Not that the story I am about to tell is altogether pleasant and
cheerful. On the contrary, I must ask your pardon for unfolding so
sombre a tale. Yet, in the impression which it has made on myself there
is something so consoling and, if I may venture the phrase, so healthful
to the soul, that you will excuse me, I hope, for the sake of the
result. Besides this is a story which has just been told to me. And now
you ask me for one. The opportunity is too good to be missed for one of
my laziness or lack of invention.

It was only last week that I met Bernard Mauprat, the last of the
line, the man who, having long before severed himself from his infamous
connections, determined to demolish his manor as a sign of the horror
aroused in him by the recollections of childhood. This Bernard is one of
the most respected men in the province. He lives in a pretty house near
Chateauroux, in a flat country. Finding myself in the neighbourhood,
with a friend of mine who knows him, I expressed a wish to be
introduced; and my friend, promising me a hearty welcome, took me to his
house then and there.

I already knew in outline the remarkable history of this old man; but I
had always felt a keen desire to fill in the details, and above all to