become an artist of the first rank. But how send her to Paris? The thing
seemed impossible. Where was the money to come from? True, M. le curé had
been well paid for his last review in the Catholic Journal, but he had
exhausted this money in sending Eugène Lacroix, another _protégé_, to
Laval for a twelvemonth. Alas now his treasury was empty; his cupboard
was bare!

This evening he was thinking all these matters over, when suddenly he was
roused from his meditations by the voice of Julie, his old housekeeper,
calling out:

"M. le curé, there is a gentleman asking for you at the door."

"For me, Julie, at this hour? Who is he?"

"Not a Frenchman, that is very certain, monsieur; I should think not,
indeed; his accent is execrable;" and the good woman lifted her hands
with a gesture of despair.

"Could you not understand what he wanted?" asked the priest.

"No, monsieur; the only word I could make out was '_la cooré_,' so I
thought that might mean you."

"Well, well," said M. Bois-le-Duc, laughing, "the best thing is for me to
see him myself."

He went out into the tiny dark passage where Mr. Webster and his clerk
were standing.