I shrugged my shoulders. "It is known," I said. "And for that?"
"I dare not advise you."
"But the cause is good!" I cried.
"Yes," he answered slowly. "I have been saying so all my life. I dare not say otherwise now. But--the cause of the people is the people's. Leave it to the people."
"You say that!" I answered, staring at him, angry and perplexed. "You, who have told me a hundred times that I am of the people! that the nobility are of the people; that there are only two things in France, the King and the people."
He smiled somewhat sadly; tapping on the table with his fingers. "That was theory," he said. "I try to put it into practice, and my heart fails me. Because I, too, have a little nobility, M. le Vicomte, and know what it is."
"I don't understand you," I said in despair. "You blow hot and cold, M. le Curé. I told you just now that I spoke for the people at the meeting of the noblesse, and you approved."
"It was nobly done."
"Yet now?"
"I say the same thing," Father Benôit answered, his fine face illumined with feeling. "It was nobly done. Fight for the people, M. le Vicomte, but among your fellows. Let your voice be heard there, where all you will gain for yourself will be obloquy and black looks. But if it comes, if it has come, to a struggle between your class and the commons, between the nobility and the vulgar; if the noble must side with his fellows or take the people's pay, then"--Father Benôit's voice trembled a little, and his thin white hand tapped softly on the table--"I would rather see you ranked with your kind."