"Well?" she prompted, with alluring imperiousness.
It was the force of habit. In trouble, in perplexity, in joy, in sorrow, for counsel, for advice there was but one court of appeal in Bernay-sur-Mer—the good Father Anton. The rôle of Father Anton was not only spiritual—it was secular. Bernay-sur-Mer was a child and Father Anton was its parent—it had always been so.
"I will ask Father Anton," said Jean.
"Father Anton? Who is Father Anton?" she demanded.
"He is the curé," Jean answered. "I do not know of any place, but Father Anton will know if there is any, and—"
"Splendid!" she broke in excitedly. "Let us go and ask Father Anton at once. Come along"—she crossed the café to the front door. "Come along, Jean, and show me the way."
Yes, certainly, she carried things by assault this American girl. She bubbled with life and vivacity. And he was to walk with her now to Father Anton's—half an hour ago he would as soon have dreamed of possessing a fortune! It was incredible! It must be a marvellous world that, where she came from—but no, even the women of her world could not be like her! The suppleness of her form, it was divine; the carriage, the poise, the smile—it was intoxication, it went to the senses!
"I am mad! It is as though—as though I were drunk with wine!" Jean muttered—and followed her across the room.
"Now where is this Father Anton of yours?"—as Jean joined her outside the tavern.
"There," said Jean, and pointed along the street. "Do you see the church—behind the second cottage? Well, it is there—just on the other side."