—Insolent woman.
—Ah, you can insult me, Monsieur le Curé. I let you do as you like with me.
—Veronica, said Marcel, this life is unendurable. I hate to be surrounded with incessant spying; what do you want to arrive at? tell me, what do you want to arrive at?
And the Curé approached her, his fists clenched, and with glaring eyes.
—Take care of yourself, woman, for I am beginning to get tired.
—I am so too: I am tired, cried Veronica.
Marcel's wrath passed all bounds.
—Yes. I understand, you ought indeed to be so. Tired of odious spying; tired of your unwholesome curiosity; tired of your useless narrow-mindedness. Do not drive me too far for your own sake, I warn you. Twice already you have made me beside myself, beware, you miserable woman, beware of doing it a third time.
—Be quiet, Monsieur le Curé, said Veronica softly, be quiet.
—Oh, you are driving me mad, cried Marcel, throwing himself into an arm-chair, and covering his face with his hands.