The curé looked at us with alarmed and astonished eyes.
“This is an honor,” he said, at last. “Will you not sit down, Messieurs?”
“M. le Curé,” began d’Argenson abruptly, “you are to celebrate a marriage here at nine o’clock, are you not?”
“Yes, Monsieur. A M. Briquet and a niece of M. Ribaut. It was to have taken place a week ago, but was postponed by the illness of the bride.”
“That is it. Well, M. le Curé, this wedding must not take place, since it is believed to be a conspiracy to defraud the girl.”
“A conspiracy, Monsieur?” gasped the curé.
“Yes, a conspiracy. Will you require any further proof of it?”
“Not if I have your word, M. d’Argenson,” answered the curé, readily.
D’Argenson hesitated a moment.
“M. le Curé,” he said, at last, “I will tell you candidly that we have no absolute proof of this conspiracy. For myself I do not doubt that it exists. In any event, I will assume all responsibility in the matter.”