“Upon my word, Abbe!” he said, with the impertinent ease of a grand seigneur who makes himself at home everywhere, “we have taken your house by storm, and hold the position, as you see.  I am the Duc de Sairmeuse, and this is my son, the Marquis.”

The priest bowed, but he did not seem very greatly impressed by the exalted rank of his guests.

“It is a great honor for me,” he replied, in a more than reserved tone, “to receive a visit from the former master of this place.”

He emphasized this word “former” in such a manner that it was impossible to doubt his sentiments and his opinions.

“Unfortunately,” he continued, “you will not find here the comforts to which you are accustomed, and I fear——­”

“Nonsense!” interrupted the duke.  “An old soldier is not fastidious, and what suffices for you, Monsieur Abbe, will suffice for us.  And rest assured that we shall amply repay you in one way or another for any inconvenience we may cause you.”

The priest’s eye flashed.  This want of tact, this disagreeable familiarity, this last insulting remark, kindled the anger of the man concealed beneath the priest.

“Besides,” added Martial, gayly, “we have been vastly amused by Bibiaine’s anxieties, we already know that there is a chicken in the coop——­”

“That is to say there was one, Monsieur le Marquis.”

The old housekeeper, who suddenly reappeared, explained her master’s response.  She seemed overwhelmed with despair.

“Blessed Virgin!  Monsieur, what shall I do?” she clamored.  “The chicken has disappeared.  Someone has certainly stolen it, for the coop is securely closed!”

“Do not accuse your neighbor hastily,” interrupted the cure; “no one has stolen it from us.  Bertrande was here this morning to ask alms in the name of her sick daughter.  I had no money, and I gave her this fowl that she might make a good bouillon for the sick girl.”

This explanation changed Bibiaine’s consternation to fury.

Planting herself in the centre of the room, one hand upon her hip, and gesticulating wildly with the other, she exclaimed, pointing to her master: 

“That is just the sort of man he is; he has less sense than a baby!  Any miserable peasant who meets him can make him believe anything he wishes.  Any great falsehood brings tears to his eyes, and then they can do what they like with him.  In that way they take the very shoes off his feet and the bread from his mouth.  Bertrande’s daughter, messieurs, is no more ill than you or I!”

“Enough,” said the priest, sternly, “enough.”  Then, knowing by experience that his voice had not the power to check her flood of reproaches, he took her by the arm and led her out into the passage.

M. de Sairmeuse and his son exchanged a glance of consternation.

Was this a comedy that had been prepared for their benefit?  Evidently not, since their arrival had not been expected.