When one evening, on returning home, he found the card of the Curé, he nearly fell backwards.
—What, he has had the audacity to come to my house, this holy water merchant. They have not told him then what I am!
—Good heavens, I cried, my dear Captain, what has this poor man done to you?
—To me! nothing at all. I don't know him. He is part of the holy priesthood; that is enough for me. He is a scoundrel like the rest.
—But it is not enough to call a man scoundrel, you must prove that he is.
—Don't trouble me about your proofs. Do you suppose I am going to rummage into this gentleman's private life and see what passes in his alcove? No, indeed, I have no desire to do so, and I leave that care to my cook.
—Come, Captain, you admit that this is to vilify a man on rather slender grounds. There are fagots and fagots, and so there are Curés and Curés. This one, I assure you, is an excellent fellow.
—It may be so, but as I have no desire to make his acquaintance, I laugh at his good qualities.
—Everybody is not of your opinion, and it appears that all the women are distracted about him.
—Another reason why I detest him; women usually place their affections very badly.