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. Ah!" he exclaimed, as his eye fell upon a small knob in the wall, "there's the spring!" He touched it, and the door flew open. He was asleep. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. The blood temporarily halted to her brain, Michelle slept peacefully again. There’s plenty to be got out of life in a decent sort of way.
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