The Bishop bowed his head, and answered, "I am a worm."
"A worm in a carriage!" the Republican growled.
It was his turn to be haughty, the Bishop's to be humble; the latter continued gently,—
"Be it so, sir. But explain to me how my coach, which is a little way off behind the trees, my good table, and the water-fowl I eat on Friday, my palace, my income, and my footmen, prove that pity is not a virtue, that clemency is not a duty, and that '93 was not inexorable."
The Republican passed his hand over his forehead, as if to remove a cloud.
"Before answering you," he said, "I must ask you to forgive me. I was in the wrong, sir, for you are in my house and my guest. You discuss my ideas, and I must restrict myself to combating your reasoning. Your wealth and enjoyments are advantages which I have over you in the debate, but courtesy bids me not employ them. I promise not to do so again."
"I thank you," said the Bishop.
G—— continued: "Let us return to the explanation you asked of me. Where were we? What was it you said, that '93 was inexorable?"
"Yes, inexorable," the Bishop said; "what do you think of Marat clapping his hands at the guillotine?"
"What do you think of Bossuet singing a Te Deum over the Dragonnades?"