“Such are our neighbors!” cried Madame de Lavardens.  “An adventuress! and that is the least of it—­a heretic, Monsieur l’Abbe, a Protestant!”

A heretic! a Protestant!  Poor Cure; it was indeed that of which he had immediately thought on hearing the words, “An American, Mrs. Scott.”  The new chatelaine of Longueval would not go to mass.  What did it matter to him that she had been a beggar?  What did it matter to him if she possessed tens and tens of millions?  She was not a Catholic.  He would never again baptize children born at Longueval, and the chapel in the castle, where he had so often said mass, would be transformed into a Protestant oratory, which would echo only the frigid utterances of a Calvinistic or Lutheran pastor.

Every one was distressed, disappointed, overwhelmed; but in the midst of the general depression Paul stood radiant.

“A charming heretic at all events,” said he, “or rather two charming heretics.  You should see the two sisters on horseback in the Bois, with two little grooms behind them not higher than that.”

“Come, Paul, tell us all you know.  Describe the ball of which you speak.  How did you happen to go to a ball at these Americans?”

“By the greatest chance.  My Aunt Valentine was at home that night; I looked in about ten o’clock.  Well, Aunt Valentine’s Wednesdays are not exactly scenes of wild enjoyment, I give you my word!  I had been there about twenty minutes when I caught sight of Roger de Puymartin escaping furtively.  I caught him in the hall and said: 

“‘We will go home together.’

“‘Oh!  I am not going home.’

“‘Where are you going?’

“‘To the ball.’

“‘Where?’

“‘At Mrs. Scott’s.  Will you come?’

“‘But I have not been invited.’

“‘Neither have I’

“‘What! not invited?’

“‘No.  I am going with one of my friends.’

“‘And does your friend know them?’

“’Scarcely; but enough to introduce us.  Come along; you will see Mrs. Scott.’

“‘Oh!  I have seen her on horseback in the Bois.’

“’But she does not wear a low gown on horseback; you have not seen her shoulders, and they are shoulders which ought to be seen.  There is nothing better in Paris at this moment.’

“And I went to the ball, and I saw Mrs. Scott’s red hair, and I saw Mrs. Scott’s white shoulders, and I hope to see them again when there are balls at Longueval.”

“Paul!” said Madame de Lavardens, pointing to the Abbe.

“Oh!  Monsieur l’Abbe, I beg a thousand pardons.  Have I said anything?  It seems to me—­”

The poor old priest had heard nothing; his thoughts were elsewhere.  Already he saw, in the village streets, the Protestant pastor from the castle stopping before each house, and slipping under the doors little evangelical pamphlets.

Continuing his account, Paul launched into an enthusiastic description of the mansion, which was a marvel—­