The servant Joséphine had left the room, but her anxious shadow still flashed from moment to moment through the half-open door.
M. Guitrel neither spoke nor ate.
“This omelette,” said the arch-priest, “has a curious mixture of flavours which tickles the palate without allowing one to distinguish just what it is that is so delightful. Will you permit me to ask your servant for the recipe?”
An hour later M. Guitrel bade farewell to his guest, and set out, with shoulders bent low, for the seminary. Buried in thought, he descended the winding, slanting street of the Chantres, crossing his great-coat over his chest against the icy wind which was buffeting the gable of the cathedral. It was the coldest, darkest corner of the town. He hastened his pace as far as the Rue du Marché, and there he stopped before the butcher’s shop kept by Lafolie.
It was barred like a lion’s cage. Under the quarters of mutton hung up by hooks, the butcher lay asleep on the ground, close against the board used for cutting up the meat. His brawny limbs were now relaxed in utter weariness, for his day’s work had begun at daybreak. With his bare arms crossed, he lay slowly nodding his head. His steel was still hanging at his side and his legs were stretched out under a blood-stained white apron. His red face was shining, and under the turned-down collar of his pink shirt the veins of his neck swelled up. From the recumbent figure breathed a sense of quiet power. M. Bergeret, indeed, always used to say of Lafolie that from him one could gather some idea of the Homeric heroes, because his manner of life resembled theirs since, like them, he shed the blood of victims.
Butcher Lafolie slept. Near him slept his son, tall and strong like his father, and with ruddy cheeks. The butcher’s boy, with his head in his hands, was asleep on the marble slab, with his hair dangling among the spread-out joints of meat. Behind her glazed partition at the entrance of the shop sat Madame Lafolie, bolt upright, but with heavy eyes weighed down by sleep. She was a fat woman, with a huge bosom, her flesh saturated with the blood of beasts. The whole family had a look of brutal, yet masterly, power, an air of barbaric royalty.
With his quick glance shifting from one to the other, M. Guitrel stood watching them for a long while. Again and again he turned with special interest towards the master, the colossus whose purpled cheeks were barred by a long reddish moustache, and who, now that his eyes were shut, showed on his temples the little wrinkles that speak of cunning. Then, surfeited of the sight of this violent, crafty brute, and gripping his old umbrella under his arm, he crossed his great-coat over his chest once more, and continued his way. He was quite in good spirits once more, as he thought to himself:
“Eight thousand, three hundred and twenty-five francs last year. One thousand, nine hundred and six this year. Abbé Lantaigne, principal of the high seminary, owes ten thousand, two hundred and thirty-one francs to Lafolie the butcher, who is by no means an easy-going creditor. Abbé Lantaigne will not be a bishop.”
For a long while he had been aware that M. Lantaigne was in financial straits, and that the college was heavily in debt. To-day his servant Joséphine had just informed him that Lafolie was showing his teeth and talking of suing the seminary and the archbishopric for debt. Trotting along with his mincing step, M. Guitrel murmured:
“M. Lantaigne will never be a bishop. He is honest enough, but he is a bad manager. Now a bishopric is just an administration. Bossuet said so in express terms when he was delivering the funeral oration of the Prince de Condé.”