“What a man!” muttered Veuve Angelin, throwing up her hands. “He is no more fit to manage his affairs than a child—an idiot! I do what I can, but he overthrows every thing. Monseigneur sending for him, that wretched little Pinot longing to jump into his shoes, and in the face of it all he first orders coffee, and then rushes off to that old misery André, from whom he will never get a sou. It upsets my nerves to think of it. Monseigneur at the Evêché, and that boy of old André’s in a hole of a place, both wanting him, and he must choose to go to the boy! And M. Jean was so agreeable! It is true, as he says, that I have a great deal of solitude to endure here, but one could bear a great deal if those one lived with were only reasonable. And there will be that cook of M. Pinot’s giving herself airs at the market to-morrow! I will take care to let them know whom M. Jean came to first—but monsieur never arrives at taking his position, do what I will.”
It was midnight before M. Deshoulières reached the Evêché; the Bishop’s nephew received him freezingly.
“It is some hours since we sent to request your services, monsieur.”
“When I reached my house, Monsieur l’Abbé, I understood that your servant had wisely gone on to M. Pinot, and knowing Monseigneur to be in good hands I obeyed a pressing summons to a poor boy whose state gives me great uneasiness.” M. l’Abbé stared. Here was the chief pastor of the flock lying upstairs, sick and weary, and this doctor—occupying himself with attendance upon one of the very poorest of the sheep. He answered stiffly:—
“M. Pinot is at this moment with the Bishop.” The doctor bowed.
“He appears to understand the case, and I do not think we need deprive your other patients of your time.”
“Under those circumstances, as I am very sleepy, M. l’Abbé,” said M. Deshoulières cheerfully, “I shall go and indulge myself with great satisfaction. With Monseigneur’s symptoms, you may have perfect confidence in Monsieur Pinot.”
He left the Abbé speechless, ran down the broad oaken stairs, and through a yard and a garden out into the Place Notre Dame. It was a calm, beautiful night, overhead the stars were shining, before him rose the Cathedral in silent, grave repose. “This night’s work will be the making of Pinot,” he thought to himself, as he walked under the dark houses. “All Charville will know of it to-morrow. He is a painstaking little man, without originality of conception, but able to benefit by what he sees practised, which is more than one can say of all one’s trade. I am glad he should have this lift, though I shall miss the old Bishop’s good-natured face.”
The next morning, when M. Deshoulières went out early, Veuve Angelin devoutly hoped he was going to the Evêché. At his déjeûner, however, she waited upon him with so lugubrious a face, that he felt himself obliged to inquire into the cause.
“It cannot be true. Monsieur would not look so unconcerned. Otherwise it is reported that monsieur was refused permission to see Monseigneur last evening.”