He replied angrily: “Is it to insult me that you call me ‘Mons. le Cure?’ I am no more the curate of Kamouraska. You are the curate now, Mr. Chiniquy.”
“I beg your pardon, my dear Mr. Varin; you are still, I hope you will remain all your life, the honored and beloved curate of Kamouraska. The respect and gratitude I owe you have caused me to refuse the titles and honors which our bishop wanted to give me.”
“But, then, if I am the curate, what are you?” replied the old priest, with more calmness.
“I am nothing but a simple soldier of Christ, and a sower of the good seed of the gospel!” I answered. “When I fight the common enemy in the plain, as Joshua did, you, like Moses, will stand on the top of the mountain, lift up your hands to heaven, send your prayers to the mercy-seat, and we will gain the day. Then both will bless the God of our salvation for the victory.”
“Well! well! this is beautiful, grand and sublime,” said the old priest, with a voice filled with friendly emotions. “But where is your household furniture, your library?”
“My household furniture,” I answered, “is in this little bag which I hold in my hand. I do not want any of my books, as long as I have the pleasure and honor to be with the good Mons. Varin, who will allow me, I am sure of it, to ransack his splendid library, and study his rare and learned books.”
“But what rooms do you wish to occupy?” rejoined the good old curate.
“As the parsonage is yours, and not mine,” I answered, “please tell me where you want me to sleep and rest. I will accept, with gratitude, any room you will offer me, even if it were in your cellar or granary. I do not want to bother you in any way. When I was young, a poor orphan in your parish, some twenty years ago, were you not a father to me? Please continue to look upon me as your own child, for I have always loved you and considered you as a father, and still do the same. Were you not my guide and adviser, in my first steps in the ways of God? Please continue to be my friend and adviser to the end of your life. My only ambition is to be your right-hand man, and to learn from your old experience and your sincere piety, how to live and work as a good priest of Jesus Christ.”
I had not finished the last sentence, when the old man burst into tears, threw himself into my arms, pressed me to his heart, bathed me with his tears, and said, with a voice half-suffocated by his sobs: “Dear Mr. Chiniquy, forgive me the evil things I have written and said about you. You are welcome in my parsonage, and I bless God to have sent me such a young friend, who will help me to carry the burden of my old age.”
I then handed him the bishop’s letter, which had confirmed all I had said about my mission of peace towards him.