“I was wrong to let the gentleman carry away the book,” said the innkeeper to his wife.
“Bah! it cost only twelve sous,” she replied.
“And suppose it did: would he have given us twenty francs for it, if it had not been worth more?”
On reaching the great gate of his father’s house, Eusebe knocked.
“Ah! The good Lord be praised, Monsieur Eusebe,” exclaimed Katy, who soon appeared, “here you are at last. Hurry up to your father’s chamber: he so wishes to see you before he dies.”
Eusebe ascended quickly to his father’s chamber.
“Do I behold you at last, my son?” said M. Martin, gasping. “Have you attained your object? Tell me, if you can, before I die, where is the false; where is the true?”
“Father,” replied Eusebe, “the false is on earth; the true is in heaven!”
“You are perhaps right,” said the dying man; “and if the Abbé Jaucourt were not dead, and there were yet time, I would invite him to my bedside.”
“Father,” rejoined the young man, “the preachers of the word of God never die. They have no need to marry to reproduce themselves. Religion is a prolific mother. For one of her children who dies, ten are born.”