ordinary, that the beadle's attention was altogether withdrawn, in
the interest of observing it, from the man who had made the confession.
He did not remark by which door the stranger left the church--his eyes
were fixed on Monsieur Chaubard. The priest's naturally ruddy face was
as white as if he had just risen from a long sickness; he looked
straight before him, with a stare of terror, and he left the church as
hurriedly as if he had been a man escaping from prison; left it without
a parting word, or a farewell look, although he was noted for his
courtesy to his inferiors on all ordinary occasions.

"Good Monsieur Chaubard has heard more than he bargained for," said the
beadle, wandering back to the empty confessional with an interest which
he had never felt in it till that moment.

The day wore on as quietly as usual in the village of Croix-Daurade.
At the appointed time the supper-table was laid for the guests in the
house of Saturnin Siadoux. The widow Mirailhe and the two neighbors
arrived a little before sunset. Monsieur Chaubard, who was usually
punctual, did not make his appearance with them; and when the daughters
of Saturnin Siadoux looked out from the upper windows, they saw no
signs on the high-road of their father's return.

Sunset came, and still neither Siadoux nor the priest appeared. The
little party sat waiting round the table, and waited in vain. Before
long a message was sent up from the kitchen, representing that the
supper must be eaten forthwith, or be spoiled; and the company began to
debate the two alternatives--of waiting, or not waiting, any longer.
"It is my belief," said the widow Mirailhe, "that my brother is not
coming home to-night. When Monsieur Chaubard joins us, we had better
sit down to supper."

"Can any accident have happened to my father?" asked one of the two
daughters, anxiously.

"God forbid!" said the widow.

"God forbid!" repeated the two neighbors, looking expectantly at the
empty supper-table.

"It has been a wretched day for traveling;" said Louis, the eldest son.

"It rained in torrents all yesterday," added Thomas; the second son.

"And your father's rheumatism makes him averse to traveling in wet
weather," suggested the widow, thoughtfully.

"Very true," said the first of the two neighbors, shaking his head
piteously at his passive knife and fork.

Another message came up from the kitchen, and peremptorily forbade the
company to wait any longer.