The priest hastened to turn this favorable opportunity to profit, by pleading the cause of the wife, and rejoined:—"But, my friend, you have done something which is not becoming. You have ill-used your wife; and a man does not marry a woman to beat her. I have no doubt she has her failings, and you also have yours. You should bear with one another. Come, promise me that you will never strike her again." At these words, his face assumed somewhat of its former sullenness, and dropping the priest's hand he said frankly:—"I am very sorry that I cannot do as you wish. I will not promise because I should not keep my word." … The priest returned to the charge, and among other remarks which made some impression on the man, he was quite brought to bay by the following:—"So you won't promise not to beat your wife? That is simply because you don't reflect. Surely, you who have just done an act of kindness to a strange woman, cannot, with any decency, continue to beat your own wife." After much hesitation, he pledged his word, backing it with a tremendous oath. Since then, he has never been intoxicated, neither has he once struck his wife. You should have seen with what gratitude the woman welcomed her preserver on his next visit. "What a blessing my acquaintance with you has proved," said she. "Since your last visit you have saved me from two floorers. My husband does not drink now, but he still goes into violent passions. He raises his fist, and I fear he is about to strike me; but he forbears. He calms down at once, and says: 'Tis well for you that that abbé came, otherwise I would have floored you again."
Not long after, he was reclaimed to a Christian life; he confessed and communicated, and it is now rare to find a man of more exalted sentiments. He refused assistance from every one, saying that he was able to earn his own livelihood, and to provide for his family. To do this, he worked all day and part of the night also. Peace and comfort were restored to his home, which his wife now likens to a paradise.
To give an instance of his noble disposition, I may mention that toward the end of last December he called on the priest, to whom he had become greatly attached, and said to him with his characteristic frankness:—"I am very sad to-day, Monsieur l'Abbé."
"Why, my friend?"
"Because I am poor. In the course of my lifetime I have suffered misery enough. I have cursed the rich, and that Providence which gave them their wealth. Nevertheless, I don't believe I ever felt the wretchedness of being poor as much as I do to-day; although it is for a different reason."
"What is it, then, my good friend?"
"Well, it is this. Here we are close upon the beginning of a new year, and I wished to make you a small present—for you have been very kind to me and I have no money. However, be assured of this, at least, that you have in me a devoted friend, and that I am always at your service. Send me wherever you please; I would walk barefoot and beat a steam-engine to serve you." Then, taking the priest's hand, he added with unspeakable kindness and energy:—"Monsieur l'Abbé, should there ever be another revolution, and any assault be made on the clergy, come and take refuge with me; come and hide in our quarter, and I vow that many heads shall be broken before a hair of yours is touched."
Such are the people, taken as they are with the good and the bad which is in them. I have again selected my illustrations from among the least favorable specimens, and I may further add that it rarely happens that a priest meets even with abuse from the most depraved. The instance above adduced is exceptional, and arose out of the anger of the moment.