This was the instant to appeal for aid.  I darted forward in front of the char a bancs, and stretched out my hands to the driver.

“Help us,” I cried; we have lost our way, and the night is come.  “Help us, for the love of Christ!” I could see now that the driver was a burly, red-faced, cleanshaven Norman peasant, wearing a white cotton cap, with a tassel over his forehead, who stared at me, and at Minima dragging herself weariedly to my side, as if we had both dropped from the clouds.  He crossed himself hurriedly, and glanced at the grove of dark, solemn trees from which we had come.  But by his side sat a priest, in his cassock and broad-brimmed hat fastened up at the sides, who alighted almost before I had finished speaking, and stood before us bareheaded, and bowing profoundly.

“Madame,” he said, in a bland tone, “to what town are you going?”

“We are going to Granville,” I answered, “but I am afraid I have lost the way.  We are very tired, this little child and I. We can walk no more, monsieur.  Take care of us, I pray you.”

I spoke brokenly, for in an extremity like this it was difficult to put my request into French.  The priest appeared perplexed, but he went back to the char a bancs, and held a short, earnest conversation with the driver, in a subdued voice.

“Madame,” he said, returning to me, “I am Francis Laurentie, the cure of Ville-en-bois.  It is quite a small village about a league from here, and we are on the road to it; but the route to Granville is two leagues behind us, and it is still farther to the first village.  There is not time to return with you this evening.  Will you, then, go with us to Ville-en-bois, and to-morrow we will send you on to Granville?”

He spoke very slowly and distinctly, with a clear, cordial voice, which filled me with confidence.  I could hardly distinguish his features, but his hair was silvery white, and shone in the gloom, as he still stood bareheaded before me, though the rain was falling fast.

“Take care of us, monsieur?” I replied, putting my hand in his; “we will go with you.”

“Make haste then, my children,” he said, cheerfully; “the rain will hurt you.  Let me lift the mignonne into the char a bancs.  Bah!  How little she is! Voila! Now, madame, permit me.”

There was a seat in the back of the char a bancs which we reached by climbing over the front bench, assisted by the driver.  There we were well sheltered from the driving wind and rain, with our feet resting upon a sack of potatoes, and the two strange figures of the Norman peasant in his blouse and white cotton cap, and the cure in his hat and cassock, filling up the front of the car before us.

It was so unlike any thing I had foreseen, that I could scarcely believe that it was real.

CHAPTER THE TWELFTH.

THE CURE OF VILLE-EN-BOIS.