The Marquise de Longueval had died six months before; in 1873 she had lost her only son, Robert de Longueval; the three heirs were the grandchildren of the Marquise:  Pierre, Helene, and Camille.  It had been found necessary to offer the domain for sale, as Helene and Camille were minors.  Pierre, a young man of three-and-twenty, had lived rather fast, was already half-ruined, and could not hope to redeem Longueval.

It was mid-day.  In an hour it would have a new master, this old castle of Longueval; and this master, who would he be?  What woman would take the place of the old Marquise in the chimney-corner of the grand salon, all adorned with ancient tapestry?—­the old Marquise, the friend of the old priest.  It was she who had restored the church; it was she who had established and furnished a complete dispensary at the vicarage under the care of Pauline, the Cure’s servant; it was she who, twice a week, in her great barouche, all crowded with little children’s clothes and thick woolen petticoats, came to fetch the Abbe Constantin to make with him what she called ‘la chasse aux pauvres’.

The old priest continued his walk, musing over all this; then he thought, too—­the greatest saints have their little weaknesses—­he thought, too, of the beloved habits of thirty years thus rudely interrupted.  Every Thursday and every Sunday he had dined at the castle.  How he had been petted, coaxed, indulged!  Little Camille—­she was eight years old—­would come and sit on his knee and say to him: 

“You know, Monsieur le Cure, it is in your church that I mean to be married, and grandmamma will send such heaps of flowers to fill, quite fill the church—­more than for the month of Mary.  It will be like a large garden—­all white, all white, all white!”

The month of Mary!  It was then the month of Mary.  Formerly, at this season, the altar disappeared under the flowers brought from the conservatories of Longueval.  None this year were on the altar, except a few bouquets of lily-of-the-valley and white lilac in gilded china vases.  Formerly, every Sunday at high mass, and every evening during the month of Mary, Mademoiselle Hebert, the reader to Madame de Longueval, played the little harmonium given by the Marquise.  Now the poor harmonium, reduced to silence, no longer accompanied the voices of the choir or the children’s hymns.  Mademoiselle Marbeau, the postmistress, would, with all her heart, have taken the place of Mademoiselle Hebert, but she dared not, though she was a little musical!  She was afraid of being remarked as of the clerical party, and denounced by the Mayor, who was a Freethinker.  That might have been injurious to her interests, and prevented her promotion.

He had nearly reached the end of the wall of the park—­that park of which every corner was known to the old priest.  The road now followed the banks of the Lizotte, and on the other side of the little stream stretched the fields belonging to the two farms; then, still farther off, rose the dark woods of La Mionne.