—You don't answer me. Why this silence? Are you vexed already? Where have you come from?
—I have just been reading my breviary, replied Marcel sharply.
The servant smiled, and pointed out to him his breviary, lying on the table.
—Why tell a lie? she said, I don't bear you any ill-will, because you went towards the wood, although I should have preferred to see you return here quickly. Ah, you are not like me, you have not my impatience. But men are all like that; they do all they can to have a woman, and afterwards they scorn her.
This sentence struck the Curé to the heart like a pin prick. It opened his wounds, already bleeding overmuch, it recalled the shameful memory which he wished to drive away, and which rose up obstinately before him.
—You are changing our parts in a strange manner, he cried indignantly.
—There you are vexed. Why are you vexed? What have I done to you? Have I said anything wrong to you? Do you then regret? Ah, doubtless I am not young enough or pretty enough for you.
—I pray; enough upon that shameful subject. You are revolting.
—What do you say? replied the woman, wounded to the quick.
—I have no need to repeat it, you heard me, I think.