The Marquise de Longueval, dying six months since, had left three heirs,
her grandchildren, two of whom were under age, so that the estate had to
be put up for sale. Pierre, the eldest, an extravagant young man of
twenty-three, had foolishly squandered half his money, and was quite
unable to re-purchase Longueval.

It was twelve o'clock. In an hour the château would have a new master.
Who would he be? Who could take the place of the marquise, the old
friend of the country curé, and the kindly friend of all the villagers.
The old priest walked on, thinking sadly of the habits of thirty years
suddenly interrupted. Every Thursday and every Sunday he had dined at
the château. How much had they made of him! Curé of Longueval! All his
life he had been that, had dreamed of nothing else. He loved his little
church, the little village, and his little vicarage.

Still in pensive mood, he was passing the park of Lavardens when he
heard some one calling him. Looking up, he saw the Countess of Lavardens
and her son Paul. She was a widow; her son a handsome young man, who had
made a bad start in the world and now contented himself by spending some
months in Paris every year, when he dissipated the annual allowance from
his mother, and returned home for the rest of the year to loaf about in
idleness or in pursuit of stupid sports.

"Where are you off to, Monsieur le Curé?" asked the countess.

"To Souvigny, to learn the result of the sale."

"Stay here with us. M. de Larnac is there, and will hasten back with the
news. But I can tell you who are the new owners of the castle."