"Poor dear abbé, what confidence! It is touching; that certainly proves that it is only faith which saves."
"Do not speak of faith," said the abbé, affecting anger pleasantly. "Be silent, you pagan, materialist, atheist, republican, for you are and have been all, at your pleasure."
"Oh, oh, abbé, what an array of fine words!"
"You deserve them, wicked man; you will be damned, do you hear?—more than damned!"
"God may will it that we may meet each other some day, my poor abbé."
"I, damned?"
"Eh, eh."
"Do I abandon myself as you do to the brutality of all my appetites? Go,—you are a perfect Sardanapalus!"
"Flatterer! but then it is your manner. You reproach an old Lovelace for the enormities of which he would like to be guilty, and in the meantime you know that he has none of them; but it is all the same, your reproaches delight him, they render him cheerful; then he confesses all sorts of sins, of which, alas! he is incapable, poor man, and you have the air of giving a last pretext to his decaying imbecility."
"Fie! fie! doctor, the serpent had no more malignity than you."