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."

He emphasized this word "former" in such a manner that it was impossible
to doubt his sentiments and his opinions.

"Unfortunately," he continued, "you will not find here the comforts to
which you are accustomed, and I fear----"

"Nonsense!" interrupted the duke. "An old soldier is not fastidious,
and what suffices for you, Monsieur Abbe, will suffice for us. And rest
assured that we shall amply repay you in one way or another for any
inconvenience we may cause you."

The priest's eye flashed. This want of tact, this disagreeable
familiarity, this last insulting remark, kindled the anger of the man
concealed beneath the priest.

"Besides," added Martial, gayly, "we have been vastly amused by
Bibiaine's anxieties, we already know that there is a chicken in the
coop----"

"That is to say there was one, Monsieur le Marquis."

The old housekeeper, who suddenly reappeared, explained her master's
response. She seemed overwhelmed with despair.

"Blessed Virgin! Monsieur, what shall I do?" she clamored. "The chicken
has disappeared. Someone has certainly stolen it, for the coop is
securely closed!"

"Do not accuse your neighbor hastily," interrupted the cure; "no one has
stolen it from us. Bertrande was here this morning to ask alms in the
name of her sick daughter. I had no money, and I gave her this fowl that
she might make a good bouillon for the sick girl."

This explanation changed Bibiaine's consternation to fury.

Planting herself in the centre of the room, one hand upon her hip, and
gesticulating wildly with the other, she exclaimed, pointing to her
master:

"That is just the sort o