"Enchanted, my friend! The curé of Boulogne is not one of the best: it only has an income of eight hundred livres; but my tastes are modest, and there still remain four hundred livres over to give away to the poor."
"Good Rémy!... You can go at a slow trot, so that we lose as little time as possible."
The postillion set the horses to the required pace, which, moderate though it was, none the less brought a cloud of distress on the curé's countenance.
"Set your mind at rest," said Bougainville, "seeing we are going in the direction of Boulogne."
"Friend," the Abbé Rémy said, laughing, "I have been curé of Boulogne for twenty years; Marianne has been fifteen years with me, and never, except when detained by the side of a dying parishioner, have I been five minutes later than twelve; punctually at twelve the soup is on the table, and ... you understand?"
"Yes; don't be afraid, I do not want to upset Marianne.... You shall be home exactly by twelve."
"Now my mind is easy.... But talk about yourself a little: are you not wearing the uniform of the Navy?"
"Yes; I am captain of a ship."
"How comes that about? I thought you were a barrister—Really?—when you left college did you not begin to study law?"