AT THE PALACE.
"This world is a great ball where fools, disguised
Under the laughable names of Eminence and Highness
Think to swell out their being and exalt their baseness
In vain does the equipage of vanity amaze us;
Mortals are equal: 'tis but their mark is different."
VOLTAIRE (Discourse sur l'Homme).
Marcel felt oppressed at heart, when he put his foot again, for the first time after five years, within the episcopal Palace.
It was there formerly—five years ago, quite an abyss—he had dreamed of a future embroidered with gold and silk, but it was there also that he had seen his first illusions and his inmost beliefs flee away.
Nothing had changed; the Palace was always the same; there were the same faces, the same porter with the wan complexion, the same attendants, at once haughty and servile. Nevertheless, nobody recognized him. This priest, browned by the sun, old before his years through disappointment, almost bent beneath the load of his secret troubles, was different from the young and brilliant curate, who, full of hope had launched himself formerly into the illimitable future.
The lacqueys of the episcopal palace saluted him respectfully for his good looks; but when he gave his name, they eyed from head to foot with disdain and insolence this obscure country Curé, of whose disgrace they were aware.
—Monseigneur is much engaged, said a kind of valet de chambre with a sneaking look; I don't think he can receive you. You will call again to-morrow. Monseigneur has given orders not to be disturbed.
—Then I will wait.
—Wait if you wish to, replied the lacquey, but you run the risk of waiting a long time.