"So then, my dear abbé, you were and you are in the plot of those sanctimonious persons who desired to make a nun of Dolores Salcedo, for the purpose of getting possession of the property she would one day inherit from her uncle, the canon?"
"Dolores Salcedo! Her uncle, the canon! Really, doctor, I do not know what you mean."
"Ah! ah! you are in that pious plot! It is well to know it; it is always useful to recognise your adversaries, above all, when they are as clever as you are, dear abbé."
"But, hear me, doctor, I swear to you—"
"Stop, abbé, let us play an open game. You sent for me this morning, that the pathetic epistle you have just read to me might arrive in my presence."
"Doctor!" cried the abbé, "that is carrying distrust, suspicion, to a point which becomes—which becomes—permit me to say it to you—"
"Oh, by all means,—I permit you."
"Well, which becomes outrageous in the last degree, doctor. Ah, truly," added the abbé, with bitterness, "I was far from expecting that my eagerness to do you a kindness would be rewarded in such a manner."
"Zounds! I know very well, my poor abbé, that you hoped your ingenious stratagem would have an entirely different result."
"Doctor, this is too much!"