The pale
face of this priest was at once mild and grave, intelligent and venerable,
its expression full of benevolence and serenity. A small black cap
concealed his tonsure, and his long gray hair floated on the collar of his
maroon-colored coat. Let us add that, from his simple credulity, this
excellent priest had always been, and was still, the dupe of Jacques
Ferrand's deep and cunning hypocrisy.
"Your worthy master is in his cabinet, my son?" asked the cure.
"Yes, M. l'Abbe," said Chalamel, rising respectfully. And he opened for the
priest the door leading into a room adjoining the office.
Hearing some one speaking with vehemence in the cabinet of the notary, the
abbe, not wishing to hear, walked rapidly toward the door, and knocked.
"Come in," said a voice with an Italian accent, and the priest found
himself face to face with Jacques Ferrand and Polidori.
[Illustration: THE STORY IS TOLD]
It would seem that the clerks were not wrong when they prophesied the death
of their employer at no distant day. Since the flight of Cecily, the notary
was hardly to be recognized. Although his visage was of a frightful
thinness, and of a cadaverous hue, a hectic flush colored his hollow
cheeks; a nervous shivering, except when interrupted by convulsive spasms,
agitated his frame continually; his bony hands were dry and burning; his
large green spectacles concealed his bloodshot eyes, which sparkled with
the fire of a consuming fever; in a word, this sinister face betrayed the
ravages of a rapid consumption.
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