The young man saw him in the mirror, turned round, and suddenly discarding his angry manner, said to him in the gentlest tone,
“Well, Monsieur, has it been arranged at last?”
Julien was dumbfounded. As the young man began to turn towards him, Julien saw the pectoral cross on his breast. It was the bishop of Agde. “As young as that,” thought Julien. “At most six or eight years older than I am!”
He was ashamed of his spurs.
“Monseigneur,” he said at last, “I am sent by M. Chélan, the senior of the chapter.”
“Ah, he has been well recommended to me,” said the bishop in a polished tone which doubled Julien’s delight, “But I beg your pardon, Monsieur, I mistook you for the person who was to bring me my mitre. It was badly packed at Paris. The silver cloth towards the top has been terribly spoiled. It will look awful,” ended the young bishop sadly, “And besides, I am being kept waiting.”
“Monseigneur, I will go and fetch the mitre if your grace will let me.”
Julien’s fine eyes did their work.
“Go, Monsieur,” answered the bishop, with charming politeness. “I need it immediately. I am grieved to keep the gentlemen of the chapter waiting.”
When Julien reached the centre of the hall, he turned round towards the bishop, and saw that he had again commenced giving benedictions.