“In that case,” replied the vicar, “he has to see a special favour of God, who willed that he perishes by the hand of a nephew of those who crucified His Son. The behaviour of Providence is always admirable. M. Coquebert, can I go to my vineyard?”
“You can, sir,” replied the barber. “The wound is not a good one, but yet not of the kind by which one dies at once. It’s one of those wounds which play with the wounded like a cat with a mouse, and with such play time may be gained.”
“That’s well,” said the vicar. “Let’s thank God, my son, that He lets you live, but life is precarious and transitory. One must always be ready to quit it.”
My good tutor replied earnestly:
“To be on the earth without being of it, to possess without being in possession, for the fashion of this world passes away.”
Picking up his shears and his basket, the vicar said:
“Better than by your cloak and shoes, which I see on yonder cupboard, I recognise by your speech that you belong to the Church and lead a holy life. Have you been ordained?”
“He is a priest,” I said, “a doctor of divinity and a professor of eloquence.”
“Of which diocese?” queried the vicar.
“Of Seez in Normandy, a suffragan of Rouen.”