the duke's inquiry; "but if the gentlemen wish to wait, it will not be
long before he comes, for the poor, dear man has not breakfasted yet."

"Let us go in," the duke said to his son. And guided by the housekeeper,
they entered a sort of drawing-room, where the table was spread.

M. de Sairmeuse took an inventory of the apartment in a single glance.
The habits of a house reveal those of its master. This was clean, poor,
and bare. The walls were whitewashed; a dozen chairs composed the entire
furniture; upon the table, laid with monastic simplicity, were only tin
dishes.

This was either the abode of an ambitious man or a saint.

"Will these gentlemen take any refreshments?" inquired Bibiaine.

"Upon my word," replied Martial, "I must confess that the drive has
whetted my appetite amazingly."

"Blessed Jesus!" exclaimed the old housekeeper, in evident despair.
"What am I to do? I, who have nothing! That is to say--yes--I have an
old hen left in the coop. Give me time to wring its neck, to pick it,
and clean it----"

She paused to listen, and they heard a step in the passage.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, "here is Monsieur le Cure now!"

The son of a poor farmer in the environs of Montaignac, he owed his
Latin and tonsure to the privations of his family.