—You have spoken to that Curé? I see it. Where have you spoken to him?
—I have nothing to hide from you, father; but Monsieur Marcel had not given me any bad advice, I ask you to believe.
—So it is true then; you have spoken to this man: unknown to me, in secret.
—I had no secret to make of it. I went to confession, that is all, as I was accustomed to do at school.
—Confession! what, good Heavens! You went and knelt before that rascal, after what I have told you concerning all his like!
—All priests are not alike.
—Ah! you are under his influence already. Doubtless, he is the pearl, the model, the saint. Thunder of Heaven! my daughter too, but you do not know that your mother died of remorse of soul because she found a saint, a model of virtue in that black crew of scoundrels. Stay, be silent, you make me say too much.
—I don't understand you.
—I will be obeyed and not questioned. Have I the right to expect that from my daughter?
—You have every right, father.