“I cannot imagine. Wait! Eugene is bringing the person in.”
At that minute the boy appeared in the doorway, ushering in a tall, very foreign-looking, brown-faced man, clad in a black cassock.
The boy’s cheeks were blazing, and his eyes were excited. “Mrs. Hardy,” he said in a repressed voice, “permit me to present to you monsieur le curé Déjoux of Châtillon-sur-Loir. I have told him in the hall that it is with you that I have found refuge. Enter, monsieur.”
The sergeant flashed a quick glance at his wife. How would she stand this? The priest probably came to take her darling back to France. To his relief she was perfectly calm, though clearly surprised. She looked without consternation into the grave, kindly, almost childish face of the stranger.
The sergeant pressed forward, and shook hands with his caller; then wondering that his cassock should be so handsome, and his boots so clumsy, and his bare, ungloved hands so brown, he pointed to a chair, and begged him to be seated.
The curé bowed once more in a paternal manner, and sitting down, looked at Eugene, who stood at his elbow with glittering eyes that scarcely moved from his face.
“You are here, I take it, from the boy’s grand-uncle,” said the sergeant, coming directly to the object of his caller’s visit.
The priest did not understand a word of what he said. He spread out his hands, then turned to Eugene, who had at last ceased to hover about him, and had dropped on a stool by his side.