The old man wrung his hands. "Monsieur le Comte, you are mad!" he said.
But these threats were effectual, as no fear of personal suffering would have been, and the Curé, though solemnly protesting, submitted.
The delay he caused was not yet over, however. No angry frowns and impatient words would induce him to begin the service before the two young people had separately made their confession to him. Luckily, both were ready to do this, and neither was very long; when at last the Curé, properly vested, began with solemn deliberation the words of the service, his eyes were full of tears, not altogether unhappy.
"Two white souls, madame," he told Anne afterwards. "Your son and your daughter—you may love them freely, and trust their love for you and for each other. Never did I join the hands of two such innocent children as our dear Ange and his Hélène."
He had, in fact, just joined their hands for the first time, when he looked round anxiously at Monsieur de Sainfoy and murmured, "There is no one you can trust, monsieur—no other possible witness?"
"None," the Comte answered shortly; and even as he spoke they all heard a sharp knocking in the corridor, and the opening and shutting of doors.
"Go on, go on! This comes of all your delay," he muttered, and Angelot looked round, alarmed, while Hélène turned white with fear.
Then the person in the corridor, whoever this might be, evidently saw a light through some chink in the chapel door, for the latch was lifted, and a small but impatient voice cried out, "Hélène—are you there?"
It was not the voice of Adélaïde. Angelot looked at Hélène and smiled; the Curé hesitated. Monsieur de Sainfoy walked frowning to the door, which he had locked, and flung it open.
"Come in, mademoiselle," he said. "Here is your witness, Monsieur le Curé."