The priest’s eye flashed. This want of tact, this disagreeable familiarity, this last insulting remark, kindled the anger of the man concealed beneath the priest. “Besides,” added Martial, gayly, “we have been vastly amused by Bibiaine’s anxieties, we already know that there is a chicken in the coop----” “That is to say there was one, Monsieur le Marquis.” The old housekeeper, who suddenly reappeared, explained her master’s response. She seemed overwhelmed with despair. “Blessed Virgin! Monsieur, what shall I do?” she clamored. “The chicken has disappeared. Someone has certainly stolen it, for the coop is securely closed!” “Do not accuse your neighbor hastily,” interrupted the cure; “no one has stolen it from us. Bertrande was here this morning to ask alms in the name of her sick daughter. I had no money, and I gave her this fowl that she might make a good bouillon for the sick girl.” This explanation changed Bibiaine’s consternation to fury. Planting herself in the centre of the room, one hand upon her hip, and gesticulating wildly with the other, she exclaimed, pointing to her master: “That is just the sort of man he is; he has less sense than a baby! Any miserable peasant who meets him can make him believe anything he wishes. Any great falsehood brings tears to his eyes, and then they can do what they like with him. In that way they take the very shoes off his feet and the bread from his mouth. Bertrande’s daughter, messieurs, is no more ill than you or I!” “Enough,” said the priest, sternly, “enough.” Then, knowing by experience that his voice had not the power to check her flood of reproaches, he took her by the arm and led her out into the passage. M. de Sairmeuse and his son exchanged a glance of consternation. Was this a comedy that had been prepared for their benefit? Evidently not, since their arrival had not been expected. But the priest, whose character had been so plainly revealed by this quarrel with his domestic, was not a man to their taste. At least, he was evidently not the man they had hoped to find--not the auxiliary whose assistance was indispensable to the success of their plans. Yet they did not exchange a word; they listened. They heard the sound as of a discussion in the passage. The master spoke in low tones, but with an unmistakable accent of command; the servant uttered an astonished exclamation. But the listeners could not distinguish a word. Soon the priest re-entered the apartment. “I hope, gentlemen,” he said, with a dignity that could not fail to check any attempt at raillery, “that you will excuse this ridiculous scene. The cure of Sairmeuse, thank God! is not so poor as she says.” Neither the duke nor Martial made any response. Even their remarkable assurance was very sensibly diminished; and M. de Sairmeuse deemed it advisable to change the subject.