They entered the little chapel, and found in it about a dozen peasants on their knees, while a priest was chaunting the vespers from a small side altar, built in a niche in the wall.  It was now late, and the light, which even abroad was growing dimmer every moment, was still less strong within the building.  They could not, therefore, see the face of the priest as he knelt at the side of the altar, but the voice seemed familiar to both of them.

Madame de Lescure, perhaps as much from fatigue as from devotion, sank down at once upon her knees against a little stone seat which projected from the wall near the door, but Marie remained standing, straining her eyes to try to catch the features of the Cure.  After a moment or two she also knelt down, and said in a whisper to her sister, “It is the Cure of St. Laud—­it is our own Father Jerome.”

They had hardly been a minute or two in their position near the door, when the service for the evening was over, and the priest, rising from the altar, gave his blessing to the little congregation.  Some of them rose from their knees and left the chapel, but a portion of them still remained kneeling, with their heads in their hands, trying to make up, by the length and perseverance of their devotion, for any deficiency there might be in its fervour.  The two ladies also rose, and though they doubted for a moment what to do, they both advanced to the rude steps of the little altar, at which Father Jerome was again kneeling.  He had not seen them as yet, nor had he noticed the entrance of any one, but the ordinary congregation of the chapel; and so absorbed was he, either in his thoughts or his devotions, that he did not even observe them till they were standing close to his elbow.

“Father Jerome,” said Madame de Lescure in a low voice, laying her hand on the threadbare sleeve of the old grey coat, which he still wore.  “If you could guess the comfort I have in finding you here!”

The priest sprang from his knees at hearing her voice, and gazed at her as though she had been a ghost.

“Is it possible,” said he, “Madame de Lescure and Mademoiselle here in the chapel of Genet!” and then turning to the gaping peasants, he said, “go home, my children, go home!  I have business to speak of to these ladies.”

“Oh, Father Jerome,” said Madame de Lescure, as soon as they were alone, “for heaven’s sake tell me something of M. de Lescure.  You have heard of what happened at Cholet?”

“Yes, Madame, I was there,” said the priest.

“You were there! then you can tell me of my husband.  For God’s sake, speak, Father Jerome!  Tell me the worst at once.  I can bear it, for it can’t be worse than I expect.  Is he—­is he alive?”