Father Jerome had been in the midst of the hottest part of the battle at Cholet, sometimes encouraging the troops by his words, and at others leading them on by his example, charging at their head, with his huge crucifix lifted high in the air.  He had been close to de Lescure when he fell, and had seen him in his litter after he was carried from the field of battle.  He could, therefore, have said at once that he had seen him alive after the battle was over, but he had no wish to deceive Madame de Lescure; and at the moment of which we are speaking, he most undoubtedly believed that the wound had been fatal, and that her husband was no more.

A musket-ball had entered just below the eye, and making its way downwards, had lodged itself in the back of his neck.  A surgeon had examined the wound before Father Jerome left the army; and though he had not positively said that it would prove mortal, he had spoken so unfavourably of the case, as to make all those who heard him believe that it would be so.

Had Father Jerome expected to see the two nearest and dearest relations of the man whom he thought to be now no more, he would have prepared himself for the difficult task which he would have had to undertake, and no one would have been better able to go through it with feeling, delicacy, and firmness; but such was not the case.  The sudden apparition of the wife and sister of his friend seemed to him to be supernatural; and though he at once made up his mind to give no false hope, he could not so quickly decide in what way he should impart the sad news which he had to tell.

Madame de Lescure was trembling so violently as she asked the question, on the answer to which her fate depended, that the priest observed it, and he turned to the altar at the end of the chapel, to fetch a rude chair which stood there for the use of the officiating clergyman, and which was the only moveable seat in the chapel; and whilst doing so, he was enabled to collect his thoughts, so as to answer not quite so much at random as he otherwise must have done.

“Sit down, Madame de Lescure,” said he, “sit down, Mademoiselle,” and he made the latter sit down on the altar step.  “You are fatigued, and you have agitated yourself too intensely.”

“Why don’t you speak, Father Jerome?  Why don’t you tell me at once—­is he alive?” And then she added, almost screaming in her agitation, “For God’s sake, Sir, don’t keep a wretched, miserable woman in suspense!”

The priest gazed for a moment at the unfortunate lady.  She had, at his bidding sunk upon the chair, but she could hardly be said to be seated, as, with her knees bent under her, and her hands clasped, she gazed up into his face.  She felt that her husband was dead but still, till the fatal word was spoken, there was hope enough within her heart to feed the agony of doubt which was tormenting her.  Marie had hitherto said nothing; she had made her own grief subservient to that of her brother’s wife, and, though hardly less anxious, she was less agitated than the other.