The giant stopped laughing long enough to turn tyrant. The woman, at the first of his growl, smiled feebly, going back with unresisting meekness to her knees, to her pots, and her kettles. The dog growled in imitation of his master; obviously the soul of the dog was in the wrong body.
Meanwhile the master of the dog and the woman had forgotten both now; he was continuing, in a masterful way, to enlighten us about the peculiarities of his native village. The talk had now reached the subject of the church.
"Oh, yes, it is fine, very, and old; it and this old house are the oldest of all the inhabitants of this village. The church came first, though, it was built by the English, when they came over, thinking to conquer us with their Hundred Years' War. Little they knew France and Frenchmen. The church was thoroughly French, although the English did build it; on the ground many times, but up again, only waiting the hand of the builder and the restorer."
Again the slim-waisted shape of the old wife ventured forth into the room.
"Yes, as he says"—in a voice that was but an echo—"the church has been down many times."
"Tais-toi—c'est moi qui parle," grumbled anew her husband, giving the withered face a terrific scowl.
"Ohé, oui, c'est toi," the echo bleated. The thin hands meekly folded themselves across her apron. She stood quite still, as if awaiting more punishment.
"It is our good curé who wishes to pull it down once more," her terrible husband went on, not heeding her quiet presence. "Do you know our curé? Ah, ha, he's a fine one. It's he that rules us now—he's our king—our emperor. Ugh, he's a bad one, he is."
"Ah, yes, he's a bad one, he is," his wife echoed, from the side wall.
"Well, and who asked you to talk?" cried her husband, with a face as black as when the curé's name had first been mentioned. The echo shrank into the wall. "As I was telling these ladies"—he resumed here his boot work, clamping the last between his great knees—"as I was saying, we have not been fortunate in cures, we of our parish. There are curés and curés, as there are fagots and fagots—and ours is a bad lot. We've had nothing but trouble since he came to rule over us. We get poorer day by day, and he richer. There he is now, feeding his hens and his doves—look, over there—with the ladies of his household gathered about him—his mother, his aunt, and his niece—a perfect harem. Oh, he keeps them all fat and sleek, like himself! Bah!"