—I am as regardful of it as you.
—Cease your idle words. Have you decided to go?
—No, uncle, I am well off here, and I stay here.
—Well off! Mouldy in your vices and obscurity. Wallowing, like Job, on your dung-heap. Roll yourself in your filth: for my part I know what course remains for me to take.
—You will do what you think proper.
—I am sure of it. But you, instead of having the excellent cure which was destined for you, you shall have one lower still than this where you can wallow at your ease in your idleness, your nothingness and your vices, for, I swear to you by my blessed patron, that if I go away without you, you shall not remain here for forty-eight hours. I will have you recalled by the Bishop. You laugh. You know me all the same; you know when I say yes it is yes. A word is enough for Monseigneur, you know. Magister dixit.
Marcel knew the character of the old Curé well enough to know that he was capable of keeping his word. Fearing to irritate him more by his obstinacy, he thought it better to appear to yield.
—It is time for Mass, he said. We will talk about that again.
—Go, my son, and pray to the Holy Spirit.