—No! your servant has told me that you have been unwell for some time.
—She is really too kind. You have been talking to her then?
—Yes, while waiting for you. She seems to me a worthy and intelligent person, but a little irritated with you. Do you live badly together?
Marcel coloured.
—Come, the blush of holy modesty is covering your face. Don't do so, child, don't we all know what it is, my dear fellow?
—Indeed, much you ought to know what these women are. They are cross-grained and stubborn, and claim to be the mistresses of the house, especially with priests younger than themselves.
—That is the inconvenience of our condition, Monsieur le Curé. What will you? We must pass it over. But, tell me, she is not so old as that. Ah, come, the maiden's blush again! I do not want to offend your virtuous feelings any longer, and I am going to talk to you about something else. You know I have centred all my ambition on you, that I occupy myself about you only, and that together with my saint and my salvation, you are the sole object of my care. Therefore, you can explain my indignation and wrath at seeing my pupil buried in this frightful village, at seeing you extinguishing your brilliant qualities, having no other stimulant for your intellect than your Sunday sermons and your stupid peasants, no other emotion than your disputes with your cook. I have therefore asked of the Lord one thing only, only one. Unam petii a Domino, hanc requiram. You know what it is—your promotion. Well, Monsieur le Curé. I come to tell you that everything is going as it were on wheels.
—Really? said Marcel indifferently.
—Just think. The day before yesterday a letter reached me from the Palace.
It was Monseigneur's secretary, little Gaudinet, who wrote to me. You know
Gaudinet?
—No, uncle.