“Don’t, my son,” he replied; “I’m entertaining the sentiments fit for my state.”
“The water is hot,” the barber said to me. “Hold the basin close to the bed. I’ll wash the wound.”
And while he pressed on my tutor’s breast a sponge soaked in hot water, the vicar entered the room with Madame Coquebert. He had a basket and a pair of vine shears in his hand.
“Here is then the poor man,” said he. “I was going to my vineyard, but that of Jesus Christ has to be attended to first; my son,” he said as he approached the stricken abbé, “offer your wound to our Lord. Perhaps it’s not so serious as it’s thought to be. And for the rest, we must obey God’s will.”
Turning to the barber, he asked:
“Is it very urgent, M. Coquebert, or could I go to my vineyard? The white ones can wait; it’s not bad if they do get a little overripe, and a little rain would only produce more and better wine. But the red must be gathered at once.”
“You speak the truth, Monsieur le Cure,” M. Coquebert replied. “I’ve in my vineyard some grapes which cover themselves with a certain moisture, and which escape the sun only to perish by the rain.”
“Alas!” said the vicar, “humidity and drought are the two enemies of the vine-grower.”
“Nothing is truer,” said the barber, “but I’ll inspect the wound.”
Having said so he pushed one of his fingers into the wound.