He heard the footsteps of the gardener as he hastened to open it, heard the gate turn upon its hinges, then the measured tramp of soldiers in the court-yard.
A loud voice commanded:
“Halt!”
The priest looked at Maurice and saw that he was as pale as death.
“Be calm,” he entreated; “do not be alarmed. Do not lose your self-possession—and do not forget my instructions.”
“Let them come,” replied Maurice. “I am prepared!”
The drawing-room door was flung violently open, and a young man, wearing the uniform of a captain of grenadiers, entered. He was scarcely twenty-five years of age, tall, fair-haired, with blue eyes and little waxed mustache. His whole person betokened an excessive elegance exaggerated to the verge of the ridiculous. His face ordinarily must have indicated extreme self-complacency; but at the present moment it wore a really ferocious expression.
Behind him, in the passage, were a number of armed soldiers.
He cast a suspicious glance around the room, then, in a harsh voice:
“Who is the master of this house?” he demanded.