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Your son will persevere in search of the fairy-stone that changes lead into gold, to pay for Pol's wicked friendship and for the pearls behind the dangerous smiles of that Matheline. Since God permits it, all is right. Yet see that your son is well protected against the smoke of his crucible, for it is the very breath of Satan; and make him promise to go to the midnight Mass."
Your god-daughter Matheline will accompany you; and I will follow with friend Sylvestre, for fear some accident might happen to him with his lame leg and sightless eye." As he proposed, so it was done; for Josserande suspected nothing, knowing that her son had promised, and that he would not break his word. As they were leaving, Pol whispered to Matheline,
Josserande raised her axe, but she had the misfortune to look at the wolf, who fixed his eyes, full of tears, upon her, and the axe fell from her hands. It was the wolf who picked it up, and when he gave it back to her, he said, "I weep for you, my mother." "Strike!" cried the crowd; for what remained of Pol and Matheline uttered terrible groans. "Strike! strike!"
"O Bretons! is there among you all not one kind soul to defend the widow's son in the hour when he bitterly expiates his sin?" "Let us alone, godmother," boldly replied Matheline. And from afar Pol Bihan added: "Don't listen to the old woman; go!" But another voice was heard in answer to Dame Josserande's appeal, and it said, "As last night, we are here!"
On her right was Matheline du Coat-Dor, on her left Bihan, both eager to console her; for they thought that by that time Sylvestre Ker must have learned the wonderful secret which would secure him untold wealth, and to possess the son they should cling to the mother; therefore there were promises and caresses, and "will you have this, or will you have that?"
Perhaps it was not the girl's fault that her heart was no larger than a little bird's; and yet for this defect was not Matheline cruelly punished? "Death to the wolf! death to the wolf! death to the wolf!"
Dame Josserande heard nothing, as Pol was relating an interesting story, so as to distract her attention; but, while talking, he listened with all his ears. Matheline laughed no longer, and thought, "Seven years! Can I wait seven years?" Then she continued: "Beautiful bridegroom, how do you know that the propitious moment falls precisely at the hour of Matins? Who told you so?"
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