This was either the abode of an ambitious man or a saint.
“Will these gentlemen take any refreshments?” inquired Bibiaine.
“Upon my word,” replied Martial, “I must confess that the drive has whetted my appetite amazingly.”
“Blessed Jesus!” exclaimed the old housekeeper, in evident despair. “What am I to do? I, who have nothing! That is to say—yes—I have an old hen left in the coop. Give me time to wring its neck, to pick it, and clean it——”
She paused to listen, and they heard a step in the passage.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, “here is Monsieur le Cure now!”
The son of a poor farmer in the environs of Montaignac, he owed his Latin and tonsure to the privations of his family.
Tall, angular, and solemn, he was as cold and impassive as the stones of his church.
By what immense efforts of will, at the cost of what torture, had he made himself what he was? One could form some idea of the terrible restraint to which he had subjected himself by looking at his eyes, which occasionally emitted the lightnings of an impassioned soul.
Was he old or young? The most subtle observer would have hesitated to say on seeing this pallid and emaciated face, cut in two by an immense nose—a real eagle’s beak—as thin as the edge of a razor.