Unconsciously the Cure had declared himself the patron of all that made
Pontiac for ever a notable spot in the eyes of three nations: and if he
repented of it, no man ever knew.

During mass and the sermon Valmond had sat very still, once or twice
smiling curiously at thought of how, inactive himself, the gate of
destiny was being opened up for him. Yet he had not been all inactive.
He had paid much attention to his toilet, selecting, with purpose, the
white waistcoat, the long, blue-grey coat cut in a fashion anterior to
this time by thirty years or more, and particularly to the arrangement of
his hair. He resembled Napoleon--not the later Napoleon, but the
Bonaparte, lean, shy, laconic, who fought at Marengo; and this had
startled the Cure in his pulpit, and the rest of the little coterie.

But Madame Chalice, sitting not far from Elise Malboir, had seen the
resemblance in the Cure's garden on Friday evening; and though she had
laughed at it, for, indeed, the matter seemed ludicrous enough at first,
--the impression had remained. She was no Catholic, she did not as a
rule care for religious services; but there was interest in the air, she
was restless, the morning was inviting, she was reverent of all true
expression of life and feeling, though a sad mocker in much; and so she
had come to the little church.

Following Elise's intent look, she read with amusement the girl's budding
romance, and was then suddenly arrested by the head of Valmond, now half
turned towards her. It had, indeed, a look of the First Napoleon. Was
it the hair? Yes, it must be; but the head was not so square, so firm
set; and what a world of difference in the grand effect! The one had
been distant, splendid, brooding (so she glorified him); the other was an
impressionist imitation, with dash, form, poetry, and colour. But where