"All's well, Martin; you are a good sentry—but hold your tongue a little longer," said Angelot.
"Ah! but take care, Monsieur Angelot," said the soldier, pointing with his stick to the dark, tremendous walls which towered beyond the moat. "I don't know what is going on there, but don't venture too far. There's a light in the chapel window, do you see? and just now I heard them hammering at the little door down there in the moat. It may be a trap for you. Listen, though, seriously. I don't know what sport you may be after, but you ought not to run Monsieur le Curé into it, and so I tell you. It is not right."
The good fellow's voice shook with anxiety. He did not pretend to be extra religious, but his father and mother reverenced the Curé, and he had known him ever since he was born.
Angelot laughed impatiently.
"Come, Monsieur le Curé," he said. "We are going down into the moat, but the steps are uneven, so give me your hand."
"Do not be anxious, Martin," said the old man. "All is well, Monsieur de Sainfoy has sent for me."
The crippled sentry waited. In the deep shadows he could see no more, but he heard their steps as they climbed down and crossed the moat, and then he heard the creaking hinges of that door far below. It was cautiously closed. All was dark and still in the moat, but shadows crossed the lighted chapel window.
The wind was rising, the clouds were flying, and the stars shining out. Waves of music flowed from the south side of the long mass of building, and sobbed away into the rustling woods. An enchanting valse was being played. Georges de Sainfoy was dancing with the richest heiress in Touraine, and his mother was so engrossed with a new ambition for him that she forgot Hélène for the moment, and her more certain future as the wife of General Ratoneau.
Madame de Sainfoy had not seen her husband since he received the Prefect's letter, and was not aware of his disappearance from the ball, now at the height of its success and splendour.