Hoel, taking off her knitted mittens after the usual exchange of
greetings.

"Yes, mademoiselle; I met him taking his dog to walk on the mall,"
replied the rector.

"Ha! then our _mouche_ will be lively to-night. Last evening we were
only four."

At the word _mouche_ the rector rose and took from a drawer in one of
the tall chests a small round basket made of fine osier, a pile of ivory
counters yellow as a Turkish pipe after twenty years' usage, and a
pack of cards as greasy as those of the custom-house officers at
Saint-Nazaire, who change them only once in two weeks. These the abbe
brought to the table, arranging the proper number of counters before
each player, and putting the basket in the centre of the table beside
the lamp, with infantine eagerness, and the manner of a man accustomed
to perform this little service.

A knock at the outer gate given firmly in military fashion echoed
through the stillness of the ancient mansion. Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel's
page went gravely to open the door, and presently the long, lean,
methodically-clothed person of the Chevalier du Halga, former
flag-captain to Admiral de Kergarouet, defined itself in black on the
penumbra of the portico.

"Welcome, chevalier!" cried Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel.

"The altar is raised," said the abbe.

The chevalier was a man in poor health, who wore flannel for his
rheumatism, a black-silk skull-cap to protect his head from fog, and a
spencer to guard his precious chest from the sudden gusts which freshen
the atmosphere of Guerande. He always went armed with a gold-headed
cane to drive away the dogs who paid untimely court to a favorite little
bitch who usually accompanied him. This man, fussy as a fine lady,
worried by the slightest _contretemps_, speaking low to spare his voice,
had been in his early days one of the most intrepid and most competent
officers of the old navy. He had won the confidence of de Suffren in
the Indian Ocean, and the friendship of the Comte de Portenduere. His
splendid conduct while flag-captain to Admiral Kergarouet was written
in visible letters on his scarred face. To see him now no one would have
imagined the voice that ruled the storm, the eye that compassed the sea,
the courage, indomitable, of the Breton sailor.

The chevalier never smoked, never swore; he was gentle and tranquil as a
girl, as much concerned about his little dog Thisbe and her caprices as
though he were an elderly dowager. In this way he ga