At the words: “You are afraid,” the reverend father almost started from his chair; but recovering his coolness, he answered: “Your reverence is right; yes, I should be afraid under such circumstances; I should be afraid of forgetting that I am a priest, and of remembering too well that I have been a soldier.”
“Really?” said Rodin, with sovereign contempt. “You are still no further than that stupid and savage point of honor? Your cassock has not yet extinguished the warlike fire? So that if this brawling swordsman, whose poor, weak head, empty and sonorous as a drum, is so easily turned with the stupid jargon of ‘Military honor, oaths, Napoleon II.’—if this brawling bravo, I say, were to commit some violence against you, it would require a great effort, I suppose, for you to remain calm?”
“It is useless, I think,” said Father d’Aigrigny, quite unable to control his agitation, “for your reverence to enter upon such questions.”
“As your superior,” answered Rodin, severely, “I have the right to ask. If Marshal Simon had lifted his hand against you—”
“Sir,” cried the reverend father.
“There are no sirs here—we are only priests,” said Rodin, harshly. Father d’Aigrigny held down his head, scarcely able to repress his rage.
“I ask you,” continued Rodin, obstinately, “if Marshal Simon had struck you? Is that clear?”
“Enough! in mercy,” said Father d’Aigrigny, “enough!”
“Or, if you like it better, had Marshal Simon left the marks of his fingers on your cheek?” resumed Rodin, with the utmost pertinacity.
Father d’Aigrigny, pale as death, ground his teeth in a kind of fury at the very idea of such an insult, while Rodin, who had no doubt his object in asking the question, raised his flabby eyelids, and seemed to watch attentively the significant symptoms revealed in the agitated countenance of the ex-colonel.