“Why did you not wait for me on the hill, malhonnête?” asked a thick voice, like the voice of a man, but the manner was the manner of a woman. “I am sure you must have heard me. One hears me like a locomotive, now that I have lost my slimness.”
She came into the room as she spoke, unwinding a number of black, knitted shawls, in which she was enveloped. There were so many of them, and of such different shape and texture, that some confusion ensued. The Abbé ran to her assistance.
“But, Madame,” he cried, “how can you suspect me of such a crime? I came early to make these preparations. And as for hearing you—would to Heaven I had! For it needs courage to be a Royalist in these days—especially in the dark, by one’s self.”
He seemed to know the shawls, for he disentangled them with skill and laid them aside, one by one.
The Comtesse de Chantonnay breathed a little more freely, but no friendly hand could disencumber her of the mountains of flesh, which must have weighed down any heart less buoyant and courageous.
“Ah, bah!” she cried, gaily. “Who is afraid? What could they do to an old woman? Ah! you hold up your hands. That is kind of you. But I am no longer young, and there is my Albert—with those stupid whiskers. It is unfilial to wear whiskers, and I have told him so. And you—who could harm you—a priest? Besides, no one could be a priest, and not a Royalist, Abbé!”
“I know it, Madame, and that is why I am one. Have we been seen, Madame la Comtesse? The village was quiet, as you came through?”
“Quiet as my poor husband in his grave. Tell me? Abbé, now, honestly, am I thinner? I have deprived myself of coffee these two days.”
The Abbe walked gravely round her. It was quite an excursion.
“Who would have you different, Madame, to what you are?” he temporized. “To be thin is so ungenerous. And Albert—where is he? You have not surely come alone?”