“Figures of angels and prophets are finely chased on the lozenge-shaped panels, giving the most delightful effect to the whole.” “That Bonmont was a rogue,” said Madame de Courtrai suddenly. “He was a thief; and his widow has not yet made restitution.” “You see that she is beginning to do so, however,” said the Duke, pointing to the shining ciborium. “What shall we do?” asked the Duchess. “We cannot return her gift,” said the Duke. “Why not?” asked his mother. “Well, mother, because it is impossible.” “Then we’ve got to keep it?” asked the Duchess. “Well--yes, I suppose so.” “And thank her?” “What else can we do?” “Don’t you agree with me, General?” “It would have been fitter,” said the General, “if this lady, who is a stranger to you, had refrained from making you a present. But there is no reason to respond to her civility with an insult.” Taking the ciborium in his venerable hands, the Abbé Guitrel said: “Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles will, I feel sure, look with kindness upon this gift, presented by a pious soul to the tabernacle of her altar.” “But, hang it all,” put in the Duke, “I am Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles in this case. If Madame de Bonmont and young Bonmont want to be invited to my house--and they certainly will want to--I shall be obliged to receive them now.” CHAPTER III In their efforts to escape the sudden shower that had overtaken them outside the ramparts of the castle, Madame Jules de Bonmont and Madame Hortha ran along the sentry path up to the gate house, upon the debased vault of which could be seen the peacock, emblem of the extinct house of Paves. M. de Terremondre and Baron Wallstein soon caught them up, and the four of them stood still, trying to regain their breath. “Where is the Abbé?” asked Madame de Bonmont. “Arthur, did you leave the Abbé sheltering by the hedge?” Baron Wallstein told his sister that the Abbé was coming along behind them. And soon they saw the Abbé Guitrel walking up the stone steps, damp but cheerful. He alone had managed to display a perfect dignity at the sudden alarm, and had preserved the calm suitable to his years and his corpulence; he had, in fact, maintained a truly episcopal solemnity. The race had deepened the roses in Madame de Bonmont’s cheeks; her full bosom rose and fell under her light blouse, as she stood drawing her skirts tightly around her plump hips. In her rich maturity, with her disordered hair, lustrous eyes, and ripe lips--a sort of Viennese Erigone--she reminded one of a golden cluster of juicy grapes. “Are you wet, M. l’Abbé?” she inquired, in that rather coarse voice of hers, so much less sweet than her lips. The Abbé removed his wide-brimmed hat, the dusty pile of which was spotted with rain, looked with his little grey eyes at each member of the breathless group scared by a few drops of rain, and replied, not without a certain gentle slyness: