sat Monsieur Valmond. Parpon, beside him, hung over the back of a seat,
his long arms stretched out, his hands applauding in a soundless way.
Beneath the sword of Louis the Martyr, the great treasure of the parish,
presented to this church by Marie Antoinette, sat Monsieur Garon, his
thin fingers pressed to his mouth as if to stop a sound. Presently, out
of pure spontaneity, there ran through the church like a soft chorus:

"O, say, where goes your love?
O gai, vive le roi!
He wears a silver sword,
Vive Napoleon!"

The thing was unprecedented. Who had started it? Afterwards some said
it was Parpon, the now chosen comrade--or servant--of Valmond, who,
people said, had given himself up to the stranger, body and soul; but no
one could swear to that. Shocked, and taken out of his dream, the Cure
raised his hand against the song. "Hush, hush, my children!" he said.
"Hush, I command you!"

It was the sight of the upraised hands, more than the Cure's voice, which
stilled the outburst. Those same hands had sprinkled the holy water in
the sacrament of baptism, had blessed man and maid at the altar, had
quieted the angry arm lifted to strike, had anointed the brow of the
dying, and laid a crucifix on breasts which had ceased to harbour breath
and care and love, and all things else.

Silence fell. In another moment the Cure finished his sermon, but not
till his eyes had again met those of Valmond, and there had passed into
his mind a sudden, startling thought.