He kept his eyes fixed on the priest, made one or two great efforts to swallow the lump in his throat, and at length burst out, clinching his fist convulsively:
“M. le Curé, why did you revenge yourself on my child for the grudge you had against me?”
And at the last words he struck his clinched hand against his chest.
“Chut! chut! Master Knoups,” said the Curé, with a deprecating wave of the hand; “I have duties to fulfil,—and, after all, you had been warned.”
“If you had said publicly, in the pulpit, Master Knoups is a heretic,—if you had turned me out of your church, some Sunday, in the middle of high mass, I could forgive it; but ... my child....”
“Come, come, Knoups, don’t go dragging drowned cows out of the ditch,—think of the new church roof. You’re a carpenter, and if I meant ill towards you I would not have come to you with the alms-bag.”
These words soothed Knoups somewhat. He silently offered the Curé a chair, and sat down opposite him. Then he put his hand under his blue blouse into his jacket pocket, took out a paper, unfolded it, and laid it before the priest.
“M. le Curé,” he said, “here is my tender for the contract If the work is given to me, I will deduct twenty gulden from the sum, as my contribution to the roof.”
“And then, Knoups, and then?” asked the Curé, in a tone of serious admonition.
“How do you mean, M. le Curé?”