“Ah! Torturer!” exclaimed the patient.
“Remember,” said the vicar, “that our Lord forgave His torturers.”
“They were not barbarous,” said the abbe.
“That’s a wicked word,” said the vicar.
“You must not torment a dying man for his jokes,” said my good master. “But I suffer horribly; that man assassinates me and I die twofold. The first time was by the hands of a Jew.”
“What does he mean?” asked the vicar.
“It is best, reverend sir,” said the barber, “not to trouble yourself about it. You must never want to hear the talk of a patient. They are only dreams.”
“Coquebert,” said the vicar, “you don’t speak well. Patients’ confessions must be listened to, and some Christians who never in all their lives said a good word may, at the end, pronounce words which open Paradise to them.”
“I spoke temporally only,” said the barber.
“Monsieur le Cure,” I said, “the Abbe Coignard, my good master, does not wander in his mind, and it is but too true that he has been murdered by a Jew of the name of Mosaide.”