M. Gilbert was a stubborn, explosive man, given to violent reactions. He seemed to forget the heat, his exhaustion, and his digestion. He began to throw little pellets of bread-crumbs wildly all over the room. He had the intense, expectant air of a cartridge the fuse of which has been set alight. Bénezech came to an abrupt stop at the door, overwhelmed by the might of the doctor’s vocal organs, which left no one in doubt as to what he felt.
“Ah! it’s you, is it? A fine mess you were going to get me in!”
“Doctor!”
“Listen! Lieutenant Limberg was a Jew, and you were going to give him a Catholic funeral.”
“A Jew!”
“Yes; I say a Jew!”
The priest smiled, supremely incredulous.
“He was not a Jew, Doctor, because I administered the sacrament to him yesterday again.”
M. Gilbert stopped short, like a horse who shies at a wheelbarrow. Then he whispered absently:
“Then you don’t believe a word I say!”