The Reverend Cure frequently mingled in these discussions. Seated
in his accustomed armchair, under the shade of the maple in summer,
and in winter by the warm fireside, he defended, ex cathedra, the
rights of the Church, and good-humoredly decided all controversies.
He found his parishioners more amenable to good advice over a mug of
Norman cider and a pipe of native tobacco, under the sign of the
Crown of France, than when he lectured them in his best and most
learned style from the pulpit.
This morning, however, all was very quiet round the old inn. The
birds were singing, and the bees humming in the pleasant sunshine.
The house looked clean and tidy, and no one was to be seen except
three persons bending over a table, with their heads close together,
deeply absorbed in whatever business they were engaged in. Two of
these persons were Dame Bedard, the sharp landlady of the Crown of
France, and her no less sharp and pretty daughter, Zoe. The third
person of the trio was an old, alert-looking little man, writing at
the table as if for very life.
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