The two priests looked at one another with interest for one long moment. On one side, the country priest, with an ungainly peasant build: on the other the cultured and cosmopolitan rabbi, with the sophisticated smile, old as the Bible.
“Really,” whispered Augustus in my ear—“really, Bénezech has done it often enough in his time; he might let the other have a chance.”
“You be quiet!” said M. Gilbert, who had overheard him. “You are a fool to talk like that. This is no laughing matter.”
Bénezech was just very slightly shrugging his shoulders; he lowered his eyes and stammered:
“Monsieur, if Lieutenant Limberg was really of the Hebrew faith, I would prefer to withdraw.”
“Do as you think best, Bénezech,” said M. Gilbert.
The rabbi continued to smile. He had the patient look of a believer who knows that the Messiah once failed to appear at the appointed time, and that one must continue to expect him for thousands of years again.
“Then,” said Bénezech, quite low, “I withdraw, Doctor.”
He made a few steps, and we heard him murmur as he withdrew:
“The chief thing is that he should receive the sacrament. And he has—twice.”