He wore a white cassock, which had been patched and darned in numberless places, but which was a marvel of cleanliness, and which hung about his tall, attenuated body like the sails of a disabled vessel.
He was known as the Abbe Midon.
At the sight of the two strangers seated in his drawing-room, he manifested some slight surprise.
The carriage standing before the door had announced the presence of a visitor; but he had expected to find one of his parishioners.
No one had warned him or the sacristan, and he was wondering with whom he had to deal, and what they desired of him.
Mechanically, he turned to Bibiaine, but the old servant had taken flight.
The duke understood his host’s astonishment.
“Upon my word, Abbe!” he said, with the impertinent ease of a grand seigneur who makes himself at home everywhere, “we have taken your house by storm, and hold the position, as you see. I am the Duc de Sairmeuse, and this is my son, the Marquis.”
The priest bowed, but he did not seem very greatly impressed by the exalted rank of his guests.
“It is a great honor for me,” he replied, in a more than reserved tone, “to receive a visit from the former master of this place.”