CHAPTER XII.

A NORMAN CURE.


"Mesdames!"

The priest's massive frame filled the narrow door; the tones of his
mellow voice seemed also suddenly to fill the air, drowning all other
sounds. The grace of his manner, a grace that invested the simple act
of his uncovering and the holding of his _calotte_ in hand, with an air
of homage, made also our own errand the more difficult.

I had already begun to murmur the nature of our errand: we were
passing, we had seen the manoir opposite, we had heard it was to rent,
also that he, Monsieur le Cure, had the keys.

Yes, the keys were here. Then the velvet in Monsieur le Cure's eyes
turned to bronze, as they looked out at us from beneath the fine dome
of brow.

"I have the keys of the garden only, mesdames," he replied, with
perfect but somewhat distant courtesy; "the gardener, down the road
yonder, has the keys of the house. Do you really wish to rent the
house?"

He had seen through our ruse with quick Norman penetration. He had not,
from the first, been in the least deceived.

It became the more difficult to smooth the situation into shape. "We