War being the most sublime of arts, as Maurice de Saxe remarked, there are few old officers who understand how a man can choose another profession by inclination.

—­I come, Monsieur le Capitaine, said Marcel, to pay you my visit as pastor, although perhaps a little late.  But you are aware doubtless that I have had the honour of knocking once already at your door.

—­You should not have troubled yourself, my dear sir, and you should adhere to that; I belong so little to the holy flock.

—­I owe myself to all, said Marcel smiling, to the bad sheep—­I mean to the wandering sheep, just as to the good ones; to watch over the one, to bring back and cure the others.

—­Oh!  Oh!  Well, sir shepherd, you are losing your time finely, for I am a worn-out goat.

—­There will be more joys in heaven over one sinner that repenteth....

—­That is the story of the 99 just persons that you are going to tell us; we know it, and, let me tell you, it is not encouraging for the 99 just persons.

The Cure, seeing himself on dangerous ground, hastened to leap elsewhere.

—­This is a charming little house, Captain; it is a sweet retreat after toilsome and glorious years, for you have had numerous campaigns, have you not?

—­Fifteen years in Africa, thirty-two campaigns, thirty years’ service, two wounds, one of them received at Rome when we fought for that old bully Pius IX.

Marcel had gone astray again; he quickly seized hold of the wounds.

—­Ah! two wounds!  And are they still painful?

—­Sometimes, when the weather is stormy.  And yours?

—­Mine, Captain! but I have none.  I have not had like you the honour of shedding any blood for our Holy Father.

—­A pretty cuckoo.  It doesn’t matter, you may have got a wound somewhere else.

—­Where? enquired Marcel simply.

—­How do I know?  We get them right and left, when we are least thinking of it.

—­Like all accidents.

—­Well, if you had been the chaplain of my regiment, you would have had a famous accident.  He was a right worthy apostle.  He wanted to teach the catechism to the daughter of our cantiniere, a bud of sixteen, and the little one put so much ardour into the study that the Holy Spirit made her hatch.  Her parents beat her unmercifully, and the poor girl died of grief.  Our hero, who knew how to get himself out of it with unction as white as snow, did not all the same betake himself to Paradise.  A pretty Italian gave him his reckoning. Quinte, quatorze and the point.  Game finished.  He died in the hospital pulling an ugly face.  That was the best action of his life.  Well, old boy, what do you say to that?

—­I have not exactly understood, replied Marcel, trying to keep his countenance.

—­You are very hard of understanding.  I will tell you another story and I will be clearer.  I see what you want—­the dots on the i’s.