'Listen, Jew,' said Grochowski fiercely, 'who told you to come here and lie to me? is it those horse-stealers?'
'What horse-stealers? I've come straight from Slimak….'
'Lies! You won't draw me away from here, whatever you do.'
The Jew now perceived that it was a gun which Grochowski was hiding behind his back, and the sight so unnerved him that he nearly fell down. He fled at full speed along the highroad. Even now, however, he did not forget Slimak, but walked on towards the village to find the priest.
The priest had been in the parish for several years. He was middle-aged and extremely good-looking, and possessed the education and manners of a nobleman. He read more than any of his neighbours, hunted, was sociable, and kept bees. Everybody spoke well of him, the nobility because he was clever and fond of society, the Jews because he would not allow them to be oppressed, the settlers because he entertained their Pastors, the peasants because he renovated the church, conducted the services with much pomp, preached beautiful sermons, and gave to the poor. But in spite of this there was no intimate touch between him and his simple parishioners. When they thought of him, they felt that God was a great nobleman, benevolent and merciful, but not friends with the first comer. The priest felt this and regretted it. No peasant had ever invited him to a wedding or christening. At first he had tried to break through their shyness, and had entered into conversations with them; but these ended in embarrassment on both sides and he left it off. 'I cannot act the democrat,' he thought irritably.
Sometimes when he had been left to himself for several days owing to bad roads, he had pricks of conscience.
'I am a Pharisee,' he thought; 'I did not become a priest only to associate with the nobility, but to serve the humble.'
He would then lock himself in, pray for the apostolic spirit, vow to give away his spaniel and empty his cellar of wine.
But as a rule, just as the spirit of humility and renunciation was beginning to be awakened, Satan would send him a visitor.
'God have mercy! fate is against me,' he would mutter, get up from his knees, give orders for the kitchen and cellar, and sing jolly songs and drink like an Uhlan a quarter of an hour afterwards.