you.”
The priest’s eye flashed. This want of tact, this disagreeable familiarity, this last insulting remark, kindled the anger of the man concealed beneath the priest.
“Besides,” added Martial, gayly, “we have been vastly amused by Bibiaine’s anxieties, we already know that there is a chicken in the coop——”
“That is to say there was one, Monsieur le Marquis.”
The old housekeeper, who suddenly reappeared, explained her master’s response. She seemed overwhelmed with despair.
“Blessed Virgin! Monsieur, what shall I do?” she clamored. “The chicken has disappeared. Someone has certainly stolen it, for the coop is securely closed!”
“Do not accuse your neighbor hastily,” interrupted the cure; “no one has stolen it from us. Bertrande was here this morning to ask alms in the name of her sick daughter. I had no money, and I gave her this fowl that she might make a good bouillon for the sick girl.”
This explanation changed Bibiaine’s consternation to fury.
Planting herself in the centre of the room, one hand upon her hip, and gesticulating wildly with the other, she exclaimed, pointing to her master:
“That is just the sort of man he is; he has less sense than a baby! Any miserable peasant who meets him can make him believe anything he wishes. Any great falsehood brings tears to his eyes, and then they can do what they like with him. In that way they take the very shoes off his feet and the bread from his mouth. Bertrande’s daughter, messieurs, is no more ill than you or I!”
“Enough,” said the priest, sternly, “enough.” Then, knowing by experience that his voice had not the power to check her flood of reproaches, he took her by the arm and led her out into the passage.
M. de Sairmeuse and his son exchanged a glance of consternation.
Was this a comedy that had been prepared for their benefit? Evidently not, since their arrival had not been expected.
But the priest, whose character had been so plainly revealed by this quarrel with his domestic, was not a man to their taste.
At least, he was evidently not the man they had hoped to find—not the auxiliary whose assistance was indispensable to the success of their plans.
Yet they did not exchange a word; they listened.
They heard the sound as of a discussion in the passage. The master spoke in low tones, but with an unmistakable accent of command; the servant uttered an astonished exclamation.
But the listeners could not distinguish a word.
Soon the priest re-entered the apartment.
“I hope, gentlemen,” he said, with a dignity that could not fail to check any attempt at raillery, “that you will excuse this ridiculous scene. The cure of Sairmeuse, thank God! is not so poor as she says.”
Neither the duke nor Martial made any response.
Even their remarkable assurance was very sensibly diminished; and M. de Sairmeuse deemed it advisable to change the subject.
This he did, by relating the events which he had just witnessed in Paris, and by insisting that His Majesty, Louis XVIII., had been welcomed with enthusiasm and transports of affection.
Fortunately, the old housekeeper interrupted this recital.
She entered, loaded with china, silver, and bottles, and behind her came a large man in a white apron, bearing three or four covered dishes in his hands.
It was the order to go and obtain this repast from the village inn which had drawn from Bibiaine so many exclamations of wonder and dismay in the passage.
A moment later the cure and his guests took their places at the table.
Had the much-lamented chicken constituted the dinner the rations would have been “short.” This the worthy woman was obliged to confess, on seeing the terrible appetite evinced by M. de Sairmeuse and his son.
“One would have sworn that they had eaten nothing for a fortnight,” she told her friends, the next day.
Abbe Midon was not hungry, though it was two o’clock, and he had eaten nothing since the previous evening.
The sudden arrival of the former masters of Sairmeuse filled his heart with gloomy forebodings. Their coming, he believed, presaged the greatest misfortunes.
So while he played with his knife and fork, pretending to eat, he was really occupied in watching his guests, and in studying them with all the penetration of a priest, which, by the way, is generally far superior to that of a physician or of a magistrate.
The Duc de Sairmeuse was fifty-seven, but looked considerably younger.
The storms of his youth, the dissipation of his riper years, the great excesses of every kind in which he had indulged, had not impaired his iron constitution in the least.
Of herculean build, he was extremely proud of his strength, and of his hands, which were well-formed, but large, firmly knit and powerful, such hands as rightly belonged to a gentleman whose ancestors had given many a crushing blow with ponderous battle-axe in the crusades.
His face revealed his character. He possessed all the graces and all the vices of a courtier.
He was, at the same time spirituel and ignorant, sceptical and violently imbued with the prejudices of his class.
Though less robust than his father, Martial was a no less distinguished-looking cavalier. It was not strange that women raved over his blue eyes, and the beautiful blond hair which he inherited from his mother.
To his father he owed energy, courage, and, it must also be added, perversity. But he was his superior in education and in intellect. If he shared his father’s prejudices, he had not adopted them without weighing them carefully. What the father might do in a moment of excitement, the son was capable of doing in cold blood.
It was thus that the abbe, with rare sagacity, read the character of his guests.
So it was with great sorrow, but without surprise, that he heard the duke advance, on the questions of the day, the impossible ideas shared by nearly all the emigres.
Knowing the condition of the country, and the state of public opinion, the cure endeavored to convince the obstinate man of his mistake; but upon this subject the duke would not permit contradiction, or even raillery; and he was fast losing his temper, when Bibiaine appeared at the parlor door.
“Monsieur le Duc,” said she, “Monsieur Lacheneur and his daughter are without and desire to speak to you.”
CHAPTER IV.
This name Lacheneur awakened no recollection in the mind of the duke.
