'Yes, yes,' said the priest, 'he is a very good and worthy man.'
'He never makes the slightest noise, and we can't really tell that there is anyone in the house. And he is so polite and courteous, too. I've heard it said, do you know, that he is a man of unusual attainments, and that he has been sent here as a sort of compliment to the diocese.'
They had now reached the middle of the Place of the Sub-Prefecture. Mouret stopped short and looked at Abbé Bourrette keenly.
'Ah, indeed!' the priest merely replied, with an air of astonishment.
'So I've been told. The Bishop, it is said, intends to do something for him later on. In the meantime, the new curate has to keep himself in the background for fear of exciting jealousy.'
Abbé Bourrette went on walking again, and turned the corner of the Rue de la Banne.
'You surprise me very much,' he quietly remarked. 'Faujas is a very unassuming man; in fact, he is far too humble. For instance, at the church he has taken upon himself the petty duties which are generally left to the ordinary staff. He is a saint, but he is not very sharp. I scarcely ever see him at the Bishop's, and from the first he has always been very cold with Abbé Fenil, though I strongly impressed upon him that it was necessary he should be on good terms with the Grand-Vicar if he wished to be well received at the Bishop's. But he didn't seem to see it, and I'm afraid that he's deficient in judgment. He shows the same failing, too, by his continual visits to Abbé Compan, who has been confined to his bed for the last fortnight, and whom I'm afraid we are going to lose. Abbé Faujas's visits are most ill-advised, and will do him a deal of harm. Compan has always been on bad terms with Fenil, and it's only a stranger from Besançon who could be ignorant of a fact that is known to the whole diocese.'
Bourrette was growing animated, and in his turn he stopped short as they reached the Rue Canquoin and took his stand in front of Mouret.
'No, no, my dear sir,' he said, 'you have been misinformed: Faujas is as simple as a new-born babe. I'm not an ambitious man myself, and God knows how fond I am of Compan, who has a heart of gold, but, all the same, I keep my visits to him private. He said to me himself: "Bourrette, my old friend, I am not much longer for this world. If you want to succeed me, don't be seen too often knocking at my door. Come after dark and knock three times, and my sister will let you in." So now, you understand, I wait till night before I go to see him. One has plenty of troubles as it is, without incurring unnecessary ones!'