"Madame," he said, returning to me, "I am Francis Laurentie, the curé of Ville-en-bois. It is quite a small village about a league from here, and we are on the road to it; but the route to Granville is two leagues behind us, and it is still farther to the first village. There is not time to return with you this evening. Will you, then, go with us to Ville-en-bois, and to-morrow we will send you on to Granville?" He spoke very slowly and distinctly, with a clear, cordial voice, which filled me with confidence. I could hardly distinguish his features, but his hair was silvery white, and shone in the gloom, as he still stood bareheaded before me, though the rain was falling fast. "Take care of us, monsieur?" I replied, putting my hand in his; "we will go with you." "Make haste then, my children," he said, cheerfully; "the rain will hurt you. Let me lift the _mignonne_ into the _char à bancs_. Bah! How little she is! _Voilà!_ Now, madame, permit me." There was a seat in the back of the _char à bancs_ which we reached by climbing over the front bench, assisted by the driver. There we were well sheltered from the driving wind and rain, with our feet resting upon a sack of potatoes, and the two strange figures of the Norman peasant in his blouse and white cotton cap, and the curé in his hat and cassock, filling up the front of the car before us. It was so unlike any thing I had foreseen, that I could scarcely believe that it was real. CHAPTER THE TWELFTH. THE CURÉ OF VILLE-EN-BOIS. "They are not Frenchwomen, Monsieur le Curé," observed the driver, after a short pause. We were travelling slowly, for the curé would not allow the peasant to whip on the shaggy cart-horse. We were, moreover, going up-hill, along roads as rough as any about my father's sheep-walk, with large round stones deeply bedded in the soil. "No, no, my good Jean," was the curé's answer; "by their tongue I should say they are English. Englishwomen are extremely intrepid, and voyage about all the world quite alone, like this. It is only a marvel to me that we have never encountered one of them before to-day." "But, Monsieur le Curé, are they Christian?" inquired Jean, with a backward glance at us. Evidently he had not altogether recovered from the fright we had given him, when we appeared suddenly from out of the gloomy shadows of the cypresses. "The English nation is Protestant," replied the curé, with a sigh. "But, monsieur," exclaimed Jean, "if they are Protestants they cannot be Christians! Is it not true that all the Protestants go to hell on the back of that bad king who had six wives all at one time?"