But, seemingly, Madame de Pavannes had something of the same feeling towards him which I had myself; for she started at the sound of his voice, and disengaging herself from her sister’s arms—­it seemed it was her sister—­shrank back from the pair.  She bowed indeed in acknowledgment of his words.  But there was little gratitude in the movement, and less warmth.  I saw the sister’s face—­a brilliantly beautiful face it was—­brighter eyes and lips and more lovely auburn hair I have never seen—­even Kit would have been plain and dowdy beside her—­I saw it harden strangely.  A moment before, the two had been in one another’s arms.  Now they stood apart, somehow chilled and disillusionised.  The shadow of the priest had fallen upon them—­had come between them.

At this crisis the fourth person present asserted himself.  Hitherto he had stood silent just within the door:  a plain man, plainly dressed, somewhat over sixty and grey-haired.  He looked disconcerted and embarrassed, and I took him for Mirepoix—­ rightly as it turned out.

“I am sure,” he now exclaimed, his voice trembling with anxiety, or it might be with fear, “your ladyship will regret leaving here!  You will indeed!  No harm would have happened to you.  Madame d’O does not know what she is doing, or she would not take you away.  She does not know what she is doing!” he repeated earnestly.

“Madame d’O!” cried the beautiful Diane, her brown eyes darting fire at the unlucky culprit, her voice full of angry disdain.  “How dare you—­such as you—­mention my name?  Wretch!”

She flung the last word at him, and the priest took it up.  “Ay, wretch!  Wretched man indeed!” he repeated slowly, stretching out his long thin hand and laying it like the claw of some bird of prey on the tradesman’s shoulder, which flinched, I saw, under the touch.  “How dare you—­such as you—­meddle with matters of the nobility?  Matters that do not concern you?  Trouble!  I see trouble hanging over this house, Mirepoix!  Much trouble!”

The miserable fellow trembled visibly under the covert threat.  His face grew pale.  His lips quivered.  He seemed fascinated by the priest’s gaze.  “I am a faithful son of the church,” he muttered; but his voice shook so that the words were scarcely audible.  “I am known to be such!  None better known in Paris, M. le Coadjuteur.”

“Men are known by their works!” the priest retorted.  “Now, now,” he continued, abruptly raising his voice, and lifting his hand in a kind of exaltation, real or feigned, “is the appointed time!  And now is the day of salvation! and woe, Mirepoix, woe! woe! to the backslider, and to him that putteth his hand to the plough and looketh back to-night!”

The layman cowered and shrank before his fierce denunciation; while Madame de Pavannes gazed from one to the other as if her dislike for the priest were so great that seeing the two thus quarrelling, she almost forgave Mirepoix his offence.  “Mirepoix said he could explain,” she murmured irresolutely.