Medallion made a deeper guess. “Want to know what’s the matter with him?” he said. “Ha, I’ll tell you! Woman.”
“Woman—God bless me!” said the Little Chemist, in a frightened way.
“Woman, little man; I mean the want of a woman,” said Medallion.
The Cure, who was present, shrugged his shoulders. “He has an excellent cook, and his bed and jackets are well aired; I see them constantly at the windows.”
A laugh gurgled in Medallion’s throat. He loved these innocent folk; but himself went twice a year to Quebec City and had more expanded views.
“Woman, Padre”—nodding to the priest, and rubbing his chin so that it rasped like sand-paper—“Woman, my druggist”—throwing a sly look at the Chemist——“woman, neither as cook nor bottle-washer, is what he needs. Every man-out of holy orders”—this in deference to his good friend the Cure—“arrives at the time when his youth must be renewed or he becomes as dry bones—like an empty house—furniture sold off. Can only be renewed one way—Woman. Well, here’s our Avocat, and there’s his remedy. He’s got the cooking and the clean fresh linen; he must have a wife, the very best.”
“Ah, my friend, you are droll,” said the Cure, arching his long fingers at his lips and blowing gently through them, but not smiling in the least; rather serious, almost reproving.
“It is such a whim, such a whim!” said the Little Chemist, shaking his head and looking through his glasses sideways like a wise bird.
“Ha—you shall see! The man must be saved; our Cure shall have his fees; our druggist shall provide the finest essences for the feast—no more pills. And we shall dine with our Avocat once a week—with asparagus in season for the Cure, and a little good wine for all. Ha!”
His Ha! was never a laugh; it was unctuous, abrupt, an ejaculation of satisfaction, knowledge, solid enjoyment, final solution.