The Abbe Touvent had, as a matter of fact, been Madame de Chantonnay's most patient listener through the months of suspense that followed Loo Barebone's sudden disappearance. Needless to say he agreed ardently with whatever explanation she put forward. Old ladies who give good dinners to a Low Church British curate, or an abbe of the Roman confession, or, indeed, to the needy celibate exponents of any creed whatsoever, may always count upon the active conversational support of their spiritual adviser. And it is not only within the fold of Papacy that careful Christians find the road to heaven made smooth by the arts of an efficient cook. “You know well enough what I mean, malicious one,” retorted the lady, arranging her shawl upon her fat shoulders. “I always think,” murmured the Abbe, sipping his digestive glass of eau-de-vie d'Armagnac, which is better than any cognac of Charente--“I always think that to be thin shows a mean mind, lacking generosity.” “Take my word for it,” pursued Madame de Chantonnay, warming to her subject, “that is the explanation of the young man's disappearance. They say the government has taken some underhand way of putting him aside. One does not give credence to such rumours in these orderly times. No: it is simply that he prefers the pale eyes of some Mees to glory and France. Has it not happened before, Abbe?” “Ah! Madame--” another sip of Armagnac. “And will it not happen again? It is the heart that has the first word and the last. I know--I who address you, I know!” And she touched her breast where, very deeply seated it is to be presumed, she kept her own heart. “Ah! Madame. Who better?” murmured the Abbe. “Na, na!” exclaimed Madame de Chantonnay, holding up one hand, heavy with rings, while with the other she gathered her shawl closer about her as if for protection. “Now you tread on dangerous ground, wicked one--WICKED! And you so demure in your soutane!” But the Abbe only laughed and held up his small glass after the manner of any abandoned layman drinking a toast. “Madame,” he said, “I drink to the hearts you have broken. And now I go to arrange the card tables, for your guests will soon be coming.” It was, in fact, Madame de Chantonnay's Thursday evening to which were bidden such friends as enjoyed for the moment her fickle good graces. The Abbe Touvent was, so to speak, a permanent subscriber to these favours. The task was easy enough, and any endowed with a patience to listen, a readiness to admire that excellent young nobleman, Albert de Chantonnay, and the credulity necessary to listen to the record (more hinted at than clearly spoken) of Madame's own charms in her youth, could make sure of a game of dominoes on the evening of the third Thursday in the month.