de Lavardens. “An adventuress! and that is the least of it—a heretic, Monsieur l’Abbe, a Protestant!”
A heretic! a Protestant! Poor Cure; it was indeed that of which he had immediately thought on hearing the words, “An American, Mrs. Scott.” The new chatelaine of Longueval would not go to mass. What did it matter to him that she had been a beggar? What did it matter to him if she possessed tens and tens of millions? She was not a Catholic. He would never again baptize children born at Longueval, and the chapel in the castle, where he had so often said mass, would be transformed into a Protestant oratory, which would echo only the frigid utterances of a Calvinistic or Lutheran pastor.
Every one was distressed, disappointed, overwhelmed; but in the midst of the general depression Paul stood radiant.
“A charming heretic at all events,” said he, “or rather two charming heretics. You should see the two sisters on horseback in the Bois, with two little grooms behind them not higher than that.”
“Come, Paul, tell us all you know. Describe the ball of which you speak. How did you happen to go to a ball at these Americans?”
“By the greatest chance. My Aunt Valentine was at home that night; I looked in about ten o’clock. Well, Aunt Valentine’s Wednesdays are not exactly scenes of wild enjoyment, I give you my word! I had been there about twenty minutes when I caught sight of Roger de Puymartin escaping furtively. I caught him in the hall and said:
“‘We will go home together.’
“‘Oh! I am not going home.’
“‘Where are you going?’
“‘To the ball.’
“‘Where?’
“‘At Mrs. Scott’s. Will you come?’
“‘But I have not been invited.’
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