“I will not go with you,” I answered, in the same hoarse whisper; “I am living here in the presbytery, and you cannot force me away.  I will not go.”

He laughed a little once more, and looked down upon me contemptuously in silence, as if there were no notice to be taken of words so foolish.

“Listen to me,” I continued.  “When I refused to sign away the money my father left me, it was because I said to myself it was wrong to throw away his life’s toil and skill upon pursuits like yours.  He had worked, and saved, and denied himself for me, not for a man like you.  His money should not be flung away at gambling-tables.  But now I know he would rather a thousand times you had the money and left me free.  Take it then.  You shall have it all.  We are both poor as it is, but if you will let me be free of you, you may have it all—­all that I can part with.”

“I prefer having the money and you,” he replied, with his frightful smile.  “Why should I not prize what other people covet?  You are my wife; nothing can set that aside.  Your money is mine, and you are mine; why should I forfeit either?”

“No,” I said, growing calmer; “I do not belong to you.  No laws on earth can give you the ownership you claim over me.  Richard, you might have won me, if you had been a good man.  But you are evil and selfish, and you have lost me forever.”

“The silly raving of an ignorant girl!” he sneered; “the law will compel you to return to me.  I will take the law into my own hands, and compel you to go with me at once.  If there is no conveyance to be hired in this confounded hole, we will walk down the road together, like two lovers, and wait for the omnibus.  Come, Olivia.”

Our voices had not risen much above their undertones yet, but these last words he spoke more loudly.  Jean opened the door of the sacristy and looked out, and Pierre skated down to the corner of the transept to see who was speaking.  I lifted the hand Richard was not holding, and beckoned Jean to me.

“Jean,” I said, in a low tone still, “this man is my enemy.  Monsieur le Cure knows all about him; but he is not here.  You must protect me.”

“Certainly, madame,” he replied, his eyes more roundly open than ordinarily.—­“Monsieur, have the goodness to release madame.”

“She is my wife,” retorted Richard Foster.

“I have told all to Monsieur le Cure,” I said.

“Bon!” ejaculated Jean.  Monsieur le Cure is gone to England; it is necessary to wait till his return, Monsieur Englishman.”

“Fool!” said Richard in a passion, “she is my wife, I tell you.”

“Bon!” he replied phlegmatically, “but it is my affair to protect madame.  There is no resource but to wait till Monsieur le Cure returns from his voyage.  If madame does not say, ‘This is my husband,’ how can I believe you?  She says, ‘He is my enemy.’  I cannot confide madame to a stranger.”