"Three are wanting, M. le Marquis," said the Countess, forcing a smile. "Our good Abbé Bernard, the Curé of St. Saturnin, has not yet arrived; and how could we take our places at table without his presence on All-Saints' Eve? We must wait awhile for the three missing guests. I am surprised at the absence of M. le Curé, for he has the shortest road to travel; not more than a quarter of a league."
"A quarter of a league, did you say?" exclaimed the Commander: "is that all? Why, with a good horse it would not take more than five minutes to go and return. If you command it, Madame, I will fly to M. le Curé, and bring him to your feet dead or alive!"
"Monsieur, I thank you," said the Countess, smiling; "but here is our worthy Abbé!"
At the same instant the Curé of St. Saturnin was ushered into the salon. He looked strangely white and wan; his teeth chattered; his hands were damp and cold.
"At last, Monsieur le Curé!" said the Countess, as she advanced to meet him.
"At last, Monsieur le Curé!" repeated several voices.
"Five minutes later, Monsieur le Curé, and I protest that Madame's chef de cuisine would have committed suicide for grief at the ruin of the ragoûts, and you would have had murder on your conscience!" exclaimed the Commander.
"Murder!" echoed André Bernard in a hollow voice, staring round him upon the company—"who speaks here of murder?"
"For shame, Monsieur le Commandeur! you alarm our good Abbé," said Madame de Peyrelade. "Come to the fire, Monsieur le Curé; you are trembling from cold."
"The supper is served," said the Majordomo for the second time, with an appealing look towards his mistress.