“The Baron d’Escorval, my father, who is absent,” replied Maurice.
“Where is he?”
The abbe, who, until now, had remained seated, rose.
“On hearing of the unfortunate outbreak of this evening,” he replied, “the baron and myself went to these 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 awaiting his return.”
The captain twisted his mustache with a sneering air.
“Not a bad invention!” said he. “Only I do not believe a word of this fiction.”
A light gleamed in the eyes of the priest, his lips trembled, but he held his peace.
“Who are you?” rudely demanded 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 do not know what prevents me from ordering your arrest.”