men like himself, with whom he lived on terms
of the friendliest intimacy. That was the party;
and the family of Siadoux took especial pains,
as the time approached, to provide a supper
worthy of the guests, who had all shown the
heartiest readiness in accepting their invitations.
This was the domestic position, these were
the family prospects, on the morning of the
twenly-sixth of April a memorable day, for
years afterwards, in the village of Croix-Daurade.

                                II.

           THE EVENTS OF THE DAY.

BESIDES the curacy of the village church, good
Monsieur Chaubard held some small ecclesiastical
preferment in the cathedral church of St.
Stephen at Toulouse. Early in the forenoon of
the twenty-sixth, certain matters connected with
this preferment took him from his village curacy
to the city—a distance which has been already
described as not greater than one French league,
or between two and three English miles.

After transacting his business, Monsieur
Chaubard parted with his clerical brethren, who left
him by himself in the sacristy (or vestry) of the
church. Before he had quitted the room, in his
turn, the beadle entered it, and inquired for the
Abbé de Mariotte, one of the officiating priests
attached to the cathedral.

"The Abbé has just gone out," replied Monsieur
Chaubard. "Who wants him?"

"A respectable-looking man," said the beadle.
"I thought he seemed to be in some distress of
mind, when he spoke to me."

"Did he mention his business with the
Abbé"?"

"Yes, sir; he expressed himself as anxious
to make his confession immediately."

"In that case," said Monsieur Chaubard, "I
may be of use to him in the Abbé's absence—
for I have my authority to act here as confessor.
Let us go into the church, and see if this person
feels disposed to accept my services."

When they went into the church, they found
the man walking backwards and forwards in a
restless, disordered manner. His looks were so
strikingly suggestive of some serious mental
perturbation, that Monsieur Chaubard found it no
easy matter to preserve his composure, when he
first addressed himself to the stranger.

"I am sorry," he began, "that the Abbé
de Mariotte is not here to offer you his
services——"

"I want to make my confession," said the
man, looking about him vacantly, as if the
priest's words bad not attracted his attention.

"You can do so at once, if you please," said
Monsieur Chaubard. "I am attached to this
church, and I possess the necessary authority to
receive confessions in it. Perhaps, however,
you are personally acquainted with the Abbé
de Mariotte? Perhaps you would prefer
waiting——"

"No!" said the man, roughly. "I would as
soon, or sooner, confess to a stranger."

"In that case," replied Monsieur Chaubard,
"be so good as to follow me."

He led the way to the confessional. The
beadle, whose curiosity was excited, waited a
little, and looked after them. In a few minutes,
he saw the curtains, which were sometimes used
to conceal the face of the officiating priest,
suddenly drawn. The penitent knelt with his back
turned to the church. There was literally
nothing to see—but the beadle waited nevertheless,
in expectation of the end.

After a long lapse of time, the curtain was
withdrawn, and priest and penitent left the
confessional.

The change which the interval had worked in
Monsieur Chaubard was so extraordinary, that
the beadle's attention was altogether withdrawn,
in the interest of observing it, from the man
who had made the confession. He did not
remark by which door the stranger left the church
—his eyes were fixed on Monsieur Chaubard.
The priest's naturally ruddy face was as white
as if he had just risen from a long sickness—he
looked straight before him, with a stare of
terror and he left the church as hurriedly as if
he had been a man escaping from prison; left it
without a parting word, or a farewell look,
although he was noted for his courtesy to his
inferiors on all ordinary occasions.

"Good Monsieur Chaubard has heard more
than he bargained for," said the beadle, wandering
back to the empty confessional, with an
interest which he had never felt in it till that
moment.

The day wore on as quietly as usual in the
village of Croix-Daurade. At the appointed
time, the supper-table was laid for the guests in
the house of Saturnin Siadoux. The widow
Mirailhe, and the two neighbours, arrived a little
before sunset. Monsieur Chaubard, who was
usually punctual, did not make his appearance
with them; and when the daughters of Saturnin
Siadoux looked out from the upper windows,
they saw no signs on the high road of their
father's return.

Sunset came—and still neither Siadoux nor
the priest appeared. The little party sat waiting
round the table, and waited in vain. Before
long, a message was sent up from the kitchen,
representing that the supper must be eaten
forthwith, or be spoilt; and the company began
to debate the two alternatives, of waiting, or
not waiting, any longer.

"It is my belief," said the widow Mirailhe,
"that my brother is not coming home to-night.
When Monsieur Chaubard joins us, we had better
sit down to supper."

"Can any accident have happened to my
father?" asked one of the two daughters,
anxiously.

"God forbid!" said the widow.

"God forbid!" repeated the two neighbours,
looking expectantly at the empty supper-table.

"It has been a wretched day for travelling,"
said Louis, the eldest son.

"It rained in torrents, all yesterday," added
Thomas, the second son.

"And your father's rheumatism, makes him