—­No, that will not do for me, added Marcel; if I am poor here, at least I am free.

—­Pshaw!  You did not raise all those objections to me yesterday.

—­I have reflected, my dear uncle, as I have had the honour of telling you.

—­Your reflections are fine.  Well, whether you have reflected or not, is all the same to me.  I have taken it into my head that you should go, and you shall go.  I will make you happy in spite of yourself, for I have reflected also, and more than ever I said to myself that you most go.  Do you want me to enumerate the reasons?

—­The same as yesterday I have no doubt.

—­No, there is one more, and that is worth all the rest.

—­I know what you are going to say to me, but I have my answer all ready. 
Speak.

—­What! at your age! in your position!  Are you not ashamed to fall into errors which would scarcely be pardonable in a seminarist?  Ah! you want the dots on the i’s, well I am going to place them.

—­Place them, uncle, place them.

—­Had you not enough girls then in the village without going to lay a claim on the one yonder?  On a well-educated young lady, whose fall will cause a scandal, the daughter of an enemy, of a Voltairian, almost a radical, a gaol-bird in fine who will be happy to seize the occasion to raise a terrible outcry, and to proclaim your conduct to the four quarters of the horizon.  You see I know all.

—­And who has informed you so correctly?

—­I know all, I tell you.  You can therefore keep your temper.  Will you act like the Cure of Larriques?

—­What is there in common between the Cure of Larriques and me?

—­You ought to humble yourself before God.  If you wanted a young girl, if your immoderate appetites were not satisfied with what you had under your nose, is there no cautious person in the village who would have been proud and happy to be of service to you, and whom you could have married to some clodhopper or to some Chrysostom ready for the opportunity; whilst that one, whom will you give her to?  There will be an uproar, I tell you, and that will be abomination.

—­Really, uncle, said Marcel pale with anger, if anyone heard us, would they believe that they were listening to the conversation of two ecclesiastics? you talk of these shameful things as if you were talking of the Gospel.  In fact, I do not know which to be the more astonished at, the freedom of your talk or the sad opinion which you have of me.  But I see whence all this emanates.  Do you take me then for a bad priest?

—­What is that?  Do you take me for a simpleton? for one of Moliere’s uncles?...  Enough of playing a farce.  You do not take me in, my good fellow.  I told you yesterday that you were cleverer than I; you did not see then that I was joking?  Your mask is still too transparent.  One sees the tears behind the grinning face.  No tragic aim.  Come down from this stage on which you strut in such a ridiculous manner, and let us talk seriously like plain citizens.