“What were their names?” asked d’Argenson sharply.
“The man was named Brujon,” answered the sacristan. “I do not remember the woman’s name.”
I breathed again. We were still in time.
“Very well,” said d’Argenson. “I will see the curé and find out about this other marriage.”
“Pardon, Monsieur,” protested the man, “but the curé is very busy.”
“You will tell him,” said d’Argenson grimly, “that the Comte d’Argenson, lieutenant of police, wishes to speak to him and at once.”
The fellow’s face turned livid and he bowed to the ground.
“Oh, M. d’Argenson,” he stammered, “that is another matter. Follow me, Messieurs, and I will conduct you to the curé.”
He led the way along a side aisle to the sacristy at the rear. He tapped at the door, and a voice bidding us enter, he opened it and ushered us in. The curé was sitting at a table writing.
“This is M. le Comte d’Argenson, M. le Curé,” said the sacristan, and went out, closing the door after him.