He.—The Renegade of Avignon.
I.—I never heard of the Renegade of Avignon, but he must be an astonishing man.
He.—He is so, indeed.
I.—The history of great personages has always interested me.
He.—I can well believe it. This hero lived in the house of a good and worthy descendant of Abraham, promised to the father of the faithful in number equal to the stars in the heavens.
I.—In the house of a Jew?
He.—In the house of a Jew. He had at first surprised pity, then goodwill, then entire confidence, for that is how it always happens: we count so strongly on our kindness, that we seldom hide our secrets from anybody on whom we have heaped benefits. How should there not be ingrates in the world, when we expose this man to the temptation of being ungrateful with impunity? That is a just reflection which our Jew failed to make. He confided to the renegade that he could not conscientiously eat pork. You will see the advantage that a fertile wit knew how to get from such a confession. Some months passed, during which our renegade redoubled his attentions; when he believed his Jew thoroughly touched, thoroughly captivated, thoroughly convinced that he had no better friend among all the tribes of Israel ... now admire the circumspection of the man! He is in no hurry; he lets the pear ripen before he shakes the branch; too much haste might have ruined his design. It is because greatness of character usually results from the natural balance between several opposite qualities.
I.—Pray leave your reflections, and go straight on with your story.
He.—That is impossible. There are days when I cannot help reflecting; ’tis a malady that must be allowed to run its course. Where was I?
I.—At the intimacy that had been established between the Jew and the renegade.