“You are in a valley of shadow, my reverend friend,” said the butcher, with visible exultation, “to which the sun will never penetrate now.”
The Citizen Morot laughed at this pleasantry, while the old man against whom it was directed bowed his head patiently.
“And yet,” said the laugher, with a certain air of patronage, “the Church is of some use still. She paid for those rifles, and she will pay for the ammunition—is it not so, my father?”
“Without doubt—without doubt.”
“Not to mention,” continued the other, “many contributions towards our general fund. The force that is supplied by the strong right arm of the people is, one finds, a force constantly in need of substantial replenishment.”
“But,” exclaimed the butcher, emphatically banging his fist down upon the table, “why does she do it? That is what I want to know!”
The old priest glanced furtively towards Morot, and then his face assumed an air of childish bewilderment.
“Ah!” he said guilelessly, “who can tell?”
“Who, indeed!” chimed in Morot.
The butcher was pleased with himself. He sat upright, and, banging the table a second time, he looked round defiantly.