"I know where it comes from," said the curé; "but still I can tell you nothing, as it is a secret of the confessional. But have confidence in me; as for the race, it is not bad."
"It is the same thing. I don't believe in these foundlings."
"Say nothing further about it," replied the curé rather sadly; "I will send it to the hospital."
And then, without appearing to feel either pique or bitterness, M. le Curé commenced to converse on other subjects, speaking of the next harvest, the price of the new wine, and of the last fair, with even voice and kind looks, that showed plainly he did not wish his parishioner to think he was pained by her rather prompt refusal.
This kindness of a heart truly charitable had more effect on good Pierrette than reproaches or scolding. She did her best to reply to the curé, but her eyes were wet against her will, and soon she became so absent-minded the curé with difficulty repressed his mirth, seeing that he had gained ground by the ell, without seeming to do it intentionally.
"You see," said he, "by often hearing the bells ring, one becomes a bell-ringer; and as I love all my parishioners, like a true pastor, I go everywhere, inquiring and advising, so that I may be useful in case of need. In that way, Mme. Ragaud, without ever having driven a plough or taken care of cattle, God has given me the grace of being able to advise on all rural subjects, as well as the first master-farmer in the neighborhood. Thus, I will say to you: 'When there are more pears than apples, keep your wine, good man.' This is a country proverb hundreds of years old. Now, as this year there are more pears than they know what to do with, believe me, keep your vintage, and you will have news to tell me of it by next Easter."
"I do not know how Ragaud will decide," replied Pierrette; "he is always afraid when the cellar is full...."
"The proverb never fails, my good woman; and that is easily understood when one reflects how and why proverbs have obtained credit."
"But, M. le Curé," interrupted La Ragaude, "if you knew where this poor abandoned child came from, it seems to me...."
"What child?" said the curé, taking a pinch of snuff, so as to appear indifferent. "Oh! yes, the little one of this morning. What, do you still think of it? Bah! let it pass; after all, the hospital is not a place where one dies from want of care."