“A dangerous luxury, M’sieu. If I might be permitted to advise––”
“Yes, yes, Father,––I know, I know. But what is the use? You are a priest, I am a soldier. Yours is penance, mine is fighting; yours is praying, mine is singing,––every man to his own. And when you priests have got your pagans converted, we soldiers will clean up the mess with our muskets. And now, Father, good day, and may God be with you.”
The priest’s face was unmoved as he looked after the retreating figure. He had watched Menard grow from a roistering lieutenant into a rigid captain, and he knew his temper too well 14 to mind the flicks of banter. But before the soldier had passed from earshot, he called after him.
Menard turned back. “What now, good Father? A mass for my soul, or a last absolution before I plunge into my term of dissolute idleness?”
“Neither, my son,” replied the priest, smiling. “Is any of your idleness to be shared with another?”
“Certainly, Father.”
“I am bringing a picture to the College.”
“I have no money, Father. I should be a sorry patron.”
“No, no, M’sieu; it is not a patron I seek. It is the advice of one who has seen and judged the master work of Paris. The painting has been shown to none as yet.”
“But you have seen it?”