took his seat opposite Paul, he said, 'Do you know why our friends the
Mosers went off so suddenly?'

'No, sir, do you?'

'It's very strange, very strange.'

He assumed an air of great composure for the benefit of the servants,
but it was obvious that he was disturbed, worried, and in desperate fear
of a scandal. Gradually he regained his serenity and satisfaction, not
being able to think ill of life at dinner, and ended by admitting to his
young friend that he had perhaps been a little too attentive. 'But it is
her father's fault; he pesters me; and even an awarder of good-conduct
prizes has his feelings, eh?' He lifted his glass of liqueur with a
triumphant flourish, cut short by Paul's remark, 'What will the Duchess
say? Of course Mdlle. Moser must have written to her to explain why she
left.'

Laniboire turned pale. 'Really, do you think she did?'

Paul pressed the point, in the hopes of ridding himself of such a far
from gay gallant. If the lady had not written, there was the chance
that a servant might say something. Then, wrinkling his deceitful little
nose, he said, 'If I were you, my dear sir----'

'Pooh, pooh! Nonsense! I may get a scolding, but it won't really do me
any harm.'

But in spite of his assumed confidence, the day before the Duchess
returned, upon the pretext that the election to the Academie was coming
on, and that the damp evenings were bad for his rheumatism, he went
off, taking in his portmanteau his completed report on the prizes for
good-conduct.

The Duchess arrived for Sunday's mass, celebrated with great
magnificence in the Renaissance chapel, where Vedrine's versatility had
restored both the fine stained glass and the wonderful carving of the
reredos. A huge crowd from the villages of the neighbourhood filled the
chapel to overflowing, and gathered in the great court. Everywhere were
awkward fellows in hideous black coats, and long blue blouses shining
from the iron, everywhere white caps and kerchiefs stiff with starch
round sunburnt necks. All these people were brought together not by the
religious ceremony, nor by the honours paid to the old Duke, who was
unknown in the district, but by the open-air feast which was to follow
the mass. The long tables and benches were arranged on both sides of the
long lordly avenue; and here, after the service, between two and three
thousand peasants had no difficulty in finding room. At first there
was some constraint; the guests, overawed