"Forgive him," said the abbe, "as you wish to be forgiven yourself."

At the place where the Rue de Bac loses itself in the fields, we
fortunately found along the wall of a hospital a little bronze
Triton, shooting a spirt of water into a stone tub. We stopped to
wash and drink, for our throats were dry.

"What have we done," said my master, "and how could I have lost my
temper, usually so peaceable? True men must not be judged by their
deeds, which depend on circumstances, but rather, on the example of
God our Father, by their secret thoughts and their deepest
intentions."

"And Catherine," I asked, "what has become of her through this
horrible adventure?"

"I left her," was M. d'Anquetil's answer, "breathing into the mouth
of her financier, to revive him. But she had better save her breath.
I know La Gueritude. He is pitiless. He'll send her to the spittel,
perhaps to America. I am sorry for her. She was a fine girl. I did
not love her, but she was mad after me. And, an extraordinary state
of things, I am now without a mistress."

"Don't bother," said my good tutor. "You'll soon find another, not
different, or hardly differing in essentials, from her. What you
look for in a woman, as it appears to me, is common to all females."

"It is clear," said M. d'Anquetil, "that we are in danger: I of
being sent to the Bastille, you, abbe, together with your pupil,
Tournebroche, who certainly has not killed anybody, of being