—They committed faults then?…
—I have told you so, sir,—sometimes—like you.
—Ah, Veronica, the greatest saint is he who sins only seven times a day.
—Seven times!
—Seven times, quite as much. You find, no doubt, that I sin much more, but I am far from being a saint. As to my predecessors, were they no greater saints?
—Saints! Ah, Jesus! Do you wish me to tell you, sir? Well, between ourselves, I believe that there are none but in the calendar.
—Oh, Veronica, Veronica.
—Yes, sir, I believe it in my soul and conscience, and I can add another thing still. If, before they canonized all these saints, they had consulted their servant, perhaps they would not have found a single one of them.
—What! you, the pious Veronica, you say such things?
—One is pious and staid and everything you wish, but one sees what one sees. Monsieur Fortin was accustomed to say that no one is a great man to his valet de chambre; and I add, that no one is a saint to his cook. I tell you so.