—­Really?

—­Yes, there are hours when this priest’s robe devours me, like the robe of Nessus; I wish that I could tear it off, but I feel that I should tear off pieces of my flesh at the same time, for it is too late, and it has become a portion of myself.  I am ashamed to make this confession to you, but you wished it, and I have opened my heart to you.

—­May it not be that the heart is sick?  Come.  I see that I am come to take you away from here at a seasonable time.

—­Do not believe that, uncle.

—­So much the better, if I am mistaken.  I should be delighted to be mistaken.  To be in love, my son, is the greatest act of stupidity which a priest can commit.  Make use of women, if you will, for your health and your satisfaction, and not for theirs.  Otherwise you are a lost man.

—­In truth, uncle, you have singular theories, cried Marcel.  Have you not then taken your calling seriously?

—­My calling?  I have taken it so seriously that you will never see me handling it but in the practical way.  Therefore, among those who surround me I enjoy a fine reputation for wisdom.  To be wise is to be happy, and I have contrived so as to pass my existence in the most pleasant manner possible.  I counsel you to make as much of it, and I am going to tell what I mean by being wise:  Make use of the things of life with moderation, discretion, and prudence.  Now, what constitutes life?  Spirit and matter.  Well, I wisely make the enjoyments of matter and spirit march abreast.  I obtain the equilibrium:  health of body and health of soul.  As soon as the equilibrium is broken, the mental faculties are deranged, or the constitution declines.  You are in one of these two cases, my dear fellow.

—­I!

—­Yes, you.  And, in spite of all your denials, I wager that you are in love.  Ah, ah, ah.  It is a good story.  He keeps his countenance like a thrashed donkey.  Come, drink, cheer up; honour the Lord in his benefits.  Your glass is always full.  Enjoy yourself, you don’t entertain your uncle every day.

Marcel emptied his glass.

—­Is she possessed of a husband?

—­But uncle, I don’t know, what you want to talk about.

—­Oh, how well dissimulation is grafted in this young man’s heart.  I congratulate you on it:  it is good for strangers, for the profane....  But I, Marcel, I, am I a stranger?

“Brought up in the Seraglio, I know its windings.”

Come, another drop of this wine which could make the dead laugh.

—­Listen, uncle, you are my second father, my master, my first director, my only true friend.  Yes, I want to ask your advice.  I am afraid of soiling one day the robe which I wear, I am afraid of becoming an object of shame and compassion.  Ah, I am unhappy.

—­Here we are, cried Ridoux.  Speak.  The only point is to understand one another.

LXVI.