“Father,” replied the young man, “ten years ago M. Jaucourt, the curate, who died last year, seeing me divide a piece of bread with a poor idiot, embraced me as I just embraced you when you divided your fortune with me.”
At this moment the diligence passed. With one bound, Eusebe seated himself beside the postilion.
M. Martin closed the window, and, as he with a large plaid handkerchief wiped away a tear that was ready to fall, said,—
“Plague on the curates! they are always sticking their noses where they have no business!”
CHAPTER II.
M. Martin was neither a wicked man nor a fool, but he was a confirmed skeptic. For forty years (he was now sixty) he had been disappointed in all the events of his life.
When it became necessary for him to marry, he had to choose between two of his cousins, who were equally accomplished and equally beautiful. He preferred the one who pleased him least, because she was of a more robust constitution than her sister. Nine years afterwards she died, while the delicate sister was still living.