“Where is he?”
The abbe, who had hitherto remained seated, now rose to his feet. “On hearing of the unfortunate outbreak of this evening,” he replied, “the baron and myself went after the peasants in the hope of inducing them to relinquish their foolish undertaking. They would not listen to us. In the confusion that ensued, I became separated from the baron; I returned here very anxious, and am now waiting for his return.”
The captain twisted his moustache with a sneering air. “Not a bad invention!” said he. “Only I don’t believe a word of it.”
A threatening light gleamed in the priest’s eyes, and his lips trembled for a moment. However, he prudently held his peace.
“Who are you?” rudely asked the officer.
“I am the cure of Sairmeuse.”
“Honest men ought to be in bed at this hour. And you are racing about the country after rebellious peasants. Really, I don’t know what prevents me from ordering your arrest.”
What did prevent him was the priestly robe, all powerful under the Restoration. With Maurice, however, the swaggering swashbuckler was more at ease. “How many are there in this family of yours?” he asked.
“Three; my father, my mother—ill at this moment—and myself.”
“And how many servants?”