‘I ought to remember her,’ answered the curé, looking somewhat astonished at the question, ‘for I baptized her; I prepared her for her first communion, poor soul; and I married her.’ John Treverton started from his chair, and then sat down again profoundly agitated. Sampson was right. Yes; there had been a previous marriage. Yet it might be too soon for exultation. The first husband might have died before La Chicot came to Paris. ‘Are we talking of the same woman?’ he asked; ‘a girl who was known as Mademoiselle Chicot?’ ‘Yes,’ answered Father le Mescam, ‘that was the only woman who ever left Auray to blossom into a stage dancer. Ours is not a soil which freely produces that kind of flower. I have good reason to remember that girl, for I was interested by her singular beauty, and I felt anxious for the safety of her soul amidst the snares and temptations to which such remarkable beauty is subject. I did my best to teach her--to fortify her against all future dangers; but she was as empty within as was lovely without. I hardly know whether one ought to consider such a creature responsible for all her errors. Hers was a case of invincible ignorance. The Church has to deal with many such characters--the heart hard as stone, the intellect a blank.’ ‘What’s he jabbering about?’ said Tom Sampson to his client. ‘You look as if you had found out something.’ ‘Wait, my dear fellow. I am on the point of making a discovery. You were right in your guess, Sampson; there was a previous husband.’ ‘Of course,’ cried Sampson triumphantly. ‘My surprise in the case of a woman of that kind would be to discover only one previous husband; I should sooner expect to hear of six.’ ‘Hold your tongue,’ said John Treverton authoritatively, and then he refilled Father le Mescam’s glass before he proceeded with his inquiry. ‘You say you married La Chicot?’ ‘She was not La Chicot when I married her, but plain Marie Pomellec, the eldest daughter of a drunken old fisherman down by the quay. Drink was hereditary in her family. Grandfather and great-grandfather, they had all been drunkards from generation to generation. The children had to shift for themselves from the time they could run. I think that may have helped to make them hard and cruel, though some sweet souls educate themselves for heaven in just as hard a life. As Marie grew up to a fine tall slip of a girl her handsome face attracted notice. She got to know that she was the prettiest woman in Auray, and the knowledge soon spoiled whatever good there was in her. I saw all the perils of her position--dissolute parents--utter want of guidance from without--a mind too frivolous to be a guide to itself. In my idea her only chance of salvation lay in an early marriage, and although she was but seventeen when Jean Kergariou asked her to be his wife, I did not hesitate in advising her to marry him.’ ‘Who was Kergariou?’