Mouret laughed slightly. He was forming a rather contemptuous opinion of the Abbé. Then in confidential tones he went on:
'You see that tall old man who is with Madame Rastoil—the thin one I mean, with broad brims to his hat? Well, that is Monsieur de Bourdeu, the former prefect of the Drôme, a prefect who was turned out of office by the revolution of 1848. He's another one that you don't know, I'll be bound. But Monsieur Maffre there, the justice of the peace, that white-headed old gentleman who is coming last, with Monsieur Rastoil, don't you know him? Well, that is really inexcusable. He is an honorary canon of Saint-Saturnin's! Between ourselves, he is accused of having killed his wife by his harshness and miserliness.'
Mouret stopped short, looked the Abbé in the face and said abruptly, with a smile:
'I beg your pardon, but I am not a very devout person, you know.'
The Abbé again waved his hand with that vague gesture which did duty as an answer and saved him the necessity of making a more explicit reply.
'No, I am not a very devout person,' Mouret repeated smilingly. 'But everyone should be left free, is it not so? The Rastoils, now, are a religious family. You must have seen the mother and daughters at Saint-Saturnin's. They are parishioners of yours. Ah! those poor girls! The elder, Angéline, is fully twenty-six years old, and the other, Aurélie, is getting on for twenty-four. And they're no beauties either, quite yellow and shrewish-looking. The parents won't let the younger one marry before her sister; but I dare say they'll both end by finding husbands somewhere, if only for the sake of their dowries. Their mother there, that fat little woman who looks as innocent and mild as a sheep, has given poor Rastoil some pretty experiences.'
He winked his left eye, a common habit of his whenever he indulged in any pleasantry approaching broadness. The Abbé lowered his eyes, as if waiting for Mouret to go on, but, as the latter remained silent, he raised them again and watched the people in the garden as they seated themselves round the table under the trees.
At last Mouret resumed his explanatory remarks.
'They will stay out there, enjoying the fresh air, till dinner-time,' said he. 'It is just the same every Tuesday. That Abbé Surin is a great favourite. Look how he is laughing there with Mademoiselle Aurélie. Ah! Abbé Fenil has observed us. What eyes he has! He isn't very fond of me, you know, as I've had a dispute with a relation of his. But where has Abbé Bourrette got to? We haven't seen anything of him, have we? It is very extraordinary. He never misses Monsieur Rastoil's Tuesdays. He must be ill. You know him, don't you? What a worthy man he is! A most devoted servant of God!'