Maurice and the abbe remained alone in the drawing-room, silent and appalled by horrible forebodings.

The unusually calm face of the priest betrayed his terrible anxiety.  He now felt convinced that Baron d’Escorval was a prisoner, and all his efforts were now directed toward removing any suspicion of complicity from Maurice.

“This was,” he reflected, “the only way to save the father.”

A violent peal of the bell attached to the gate interrupted his meditations.

He heard the footsteps of the gardener as he hastened to open it, heard the gate turn upon its hinges, then the measured tramp of soldiers in the court-yard.

A loud voice commanded: 

“Halt!”

The priest looked at Maurice and saw that he was as pale as death.

“Be calm,” he entreated; “do not be alarmed.  Do not lose your self-possession—­and do not forget my instructions.”

“Let them come,” replied Maurice.  “I am prepared!”

The drawing-room door was flung violently open, and a young man, wearing the uniform of a captain of grenadiers, entered.  He was scarcely twenty-five years of age, tall, fair-haired, with blue eyes and little waxed mustache.  His whole person betokened an excessive elegance exaggerated to the verge of the ridiculous.  His face ordinarily must have indicated extreme self-complacency; but at the present moment it wore a really ferocious expression.

Behind him, in the passage, were a number of armed soldiers.

He cast a suspicious glance around the room, then, in a harsh voice: 

“Who is the master of this house?” he demanded.

“The Baron d’Escorval, my father, who is absent,” replied Maurice.

“Where is he?”

The abbe, who, until now, had remained seated, rose.

“On hearing of the unfortunate outbreak of this evening,” he replied, “the baron and myself went to these peasants, in the hope of inducing them to relinquish their foolish undertaking.  They would not listen to us.  In the confusion that ensued, I became separated from the baron; I returned here very anxious, and am now awaiting his return.”

The captain twisted his mustache with a sneering air.

“Not a bad invention!” said he.  “Only I do not believe a word of this fiction.”

A light gleamed in the eyes of the priest, his lips trembled, but he held his peace.

“Who are you?” rudely demanded the officer.

“I am the cure of Sairmeuse.”

“Honest men ought to be in bed at this hour.  And you are racing about the country after rebellious peasants.  Really, I do not know what prevents me from ordering your arrest.”

That which did prevent him was the priestly robe, all powerful under the Restoration.  With Maurice he was more at ease.

“How many are there in this family?”

“Three; my father, my mother—­ill at this moment—­and myself.”