The unhappy Jarjaye replied:
“I deny nothing, I am a sinner. But who could know that after death there would be so many mysteries! Any way, yes, I have sinned. The medicine is uncorked—if one must drink it, why one must. But at least, great Saint Peter, let me see my uncle for a little, just to give him the latest news from Tarascon.”
“What uncle?”
“My Uncle Matéry, he who was a White Penitent.”
“Thy Uncle Matéry! He is undergoing a hundred years of purgatory!”
“Malédiction! a hundred years! Why what had he done amiss?”
“Thou rememberest that he carried the cross in the procession. One day some wicked jesters gave each other the word, and one of them said, ‘Look at Matéry, who is carrying the cross;’ and a little further another repeated, ‘Look at Matéry, who is carrying the cross,’ and at last another said like this, ‘Look, look at Matéry, what is he carrying?’ Matéry got angry, it appears, and answered, ‘A jackanapes like thee.’ And forthwith he had a stroke and died in his anger.”
“Well then, let me see my Aunt Dorothée, who was very, very religious.”
“Bah! she must be with the devil, I don’t know her.”
“It does not astonish me in the least that she should be with the devil, for in spite of being so devout and religious, she was spiteful as a viper. Just imagine——”