Durbelliere had not been in his parish, but he had always been peculiarly intimate with the family of the Larochejaquelins, and had warmly welcomed the return of Henri to the Bocage, at a time when so many of the nobility were leaving the country.  They were now about to join hand and heart in saving the people from the horrors of the conscription, and though the Cure’s nominal mission was to be purely spiritual, he was quite prepared to give temporal aid to his allies, should it at any time appear expedient to himself to do so.

Father Jerome was a tall, well-made, brawny man; his face was not exactly handsome, but it was bold and intellectual; his eye was bright and clear, and his forehead high and open—­he was a man of immense muscular power and capable of great physical exertion—­he was above forty-five years of age but still apparently in the prime of his strength.  He wore a long rusty black, or rather grey cure’s frock, which fell from his shoulders down to his heels, and was fastened round his body with a black belt—­this garment was much the worse for wear, for Father Jerome had now been deprived of his income for some twelve months; but he was no whit ashamed of his threadbare coat, he rather gloried in it, and could not be induced by the liberal offers of his more wealthy friends to lay it aside.

Father Jerome greeted them all as he entered the breakfast-room.  He was received with great kindness by the old Marquis, who pressed his hand and made him sit beside himself; he blessed the two young girls fervently, and nodded affectionately to Henri, whom he had seen on the preceding day.  It was evident that the Cure of St. Laud’s was quite at home at Durbelliere.

“We have awful times coming on us now, Father Jerome,” said Agatha.

“Not so, Mademoiselle,” said the priest, “we have good times coming, we will have a King and our Church again, we poor cure will have our homes and our altars again; our own parishes and our old flocks.”

“Come what, come may,” said Henri, “we cannot be worse than the Convention would make us.”

“But we firmly trust that by God’s will and with God’s aid, we will soon be rid of all our troubles,” said the priest.  “M le Marquis, we have your best wishes, I know; and your full approval.  I hope we shall soon be able to lay our trophies at your feet.”

“The approval of an old man like me is but of little avail; but you shall have my prayers.  I would, however, that God had spared me from these days; it is grievous for me to see my son going out to fight against his own countrymen, at his own door-sill; it would be more grievous still, where he now to hesitate in doing so.”

“No true son of Poitou hesitates now,” said the enthusiastic priest.  “I yesterday saw every conscript in the parish of St. Laud’s, and not a single man hesitated—­not one dreams of joining the republicans; and, moreover, there is not an able-bodied man who will not come forward to assist the conscripts in withstanding the soldiers; the women, too, Mademoiselle, are equally eager.  Barere will find it difficult, I think, to raise a troop from Poitou.”