Directly I was beaten and avowed my error like Porus, the victor became as clement as Alexander.
The abbé began his fascination over me by the excellence of his dinner. If he ate well, he drank still better.
I was lost in admiration before this man—I had never imagined such curés: the Abbé Fortier came near to reconciling me to the Seminary.
Next day after mass the Abbé Fortier began his first day's shooting. Mass was not over before half-past eight; but not a soul was allowed to shoot a partridge upon the preserves until the Abbé Fortier had been seen to go by, his cassock tucked up, the game-bag on his back, a gun on shoulder, preceded by Finaud and followed by Diane.
He had a third acolyte this time, for I was with him. My recollections of hunting were lost in the obscurity of my early infancy; they went back to the days of my father and Mocquet. As in Racine's tragedies, all that happened to me at that period of my existence consisted of the hunting stories that were told me.
This time, I took some part in the action.
The abbé was an excellent shot, and there was abundance of game: he killed a dozen partridges and two or three hares.
I covered as much ground as Diane, and as each head of game fell, I rushed to pick it up, in emulation of the dogs.
No one shoots without swearing a bit at his dogs; the Abbé Fortier swore a good deal; and all these characteristics made up an entirely different picture of an abbé in my mind: he had nothing in common with the Abbé Grégoire.
From that day I was convinced there were two kinds of priests.