their reward."

"It is true that very few persons unite, like Jacques Ferrand, riches to
piety, intelligence to charity," said Polidori, with an ironical smile
which escaped the notice of the good abbe.

At this new and sarcastic eulogium the hand of the notary was clinched; he
cast from under his spectacles a look of deadly hatred on Polidori.

"You see, M. l'Abbe," the bosom friend of Jacques Ferrand hastened to say,
"he has continually these nervous spasms, and he will do nothing for them.
He worries me, he is his own executioner, my poor friend!"

At these words of Polidori, the notary shuddered still more convulsively,
but he composed himself again. A man less simple than the abbe would have
remarked, during this conversation, and, above all, during what is about to
follow, the notary's constrained manner of speaking; for it is hardly
necessary to say that a will superior to his own, the will of Rudolph, in a
word, imposed on this man words and acts diametrically opposed to his true
character. Thus sometimes, pushed to extremities, the notary appeared
reluctant to obey this all powerful and invisible authority; but a look
from Polidori put an end to his indecision. Then, constraining with a sigh
of rage his most violent feelings, Jacques Ferrand submitted to the yoke
which he could not break.

"Alas! M. l'Abbe," said Polidori, who seemed to take delight in torturing
his victim, as is said vulgarly, by pricks of a pin, "my poor friend
neglects his health too much. Tell him to be more careful of himself, if
not for his own sake, for his friends', or, at least, for the unfortunates
of whom he is the hope and support."