Marcel rose up alarmed.

—­No, no, cried Durand.  Don’t get up.  Don’t go away.  Since you are here, we must talk a little.  Stay, it will not be long.  It is the story of a cousin of mine, or rather a cousin of my wife.  Another of your confraternity.  He was curate or deacon, or canon, in fact I don’t know what rank in your regiment.  At any rate, a bitter hypocrite; you will see.  Under pretence of relationship, he used to pay us frequent visits.  You can think if that suited me, who already adored the cassock!  Besides, on principle, I detested cousins.  It is the sore of households, gentlemen; you must avoid it like the plague.  Monsieur le Cure, if you have a pretty servant, beware of cousins.  I only say that.  My wife used to say to me:  “What has this poor boy done to you that you receive him so badly?  Are you jealous of him?  Ah!  I know very well, it is because he belongs to my family, and you cannot endure my poor relations.”  So to have peace I tolerated my cousin.  He, convinced that little presents maintain friendship, used to make us little presents.  There were tickets for sacred concerts, lotteries for the benefit of the little Chinese, rosaries blessed by the pope, pebbles from Jerusalem.  Nothing wrong so far.  My wife availed herself of the concert tickets; the rosaries were put into a drawer, and I threw the pebbles into the garden.  But soon his gifts changed their character.  He brought us some hairs of St. Pancratius, a tooth of St. Alacoque, a rag which had wiped something or other off St. Anastasius or St. Cunegunda.  My wife clasped her hands, was in ecstasy and transported with joy, and I went and brought up my dinner.  I foresaw the time when he would bring us extraordinary things; a louse of St. Labre, a testicle of St. Origen, the coccyx of St. Antony, the parts of St. Gudule or the prepuce of Jesus Christ.

The Cure rose again.

—­I see that my presence is de trop here, Captain; pardon my having disturbed you.

—­Not at all.  Good Lord.  Not at all.  Sit down.  It gives me extraordinary pleasure to talk to you.  Besides, I have not finished the story of my cousin.  Sit down, I pray you; I resume.

He had given a very pretty engraving, a reproduction of a picture by somebody, Jesus and the woman taken in adultery.  My wife had had it framed very carefully, and had hung it up in our bedroom:  a bad sign.  That seemed to say to me, “See, my friend, imitate Jesus.”  One day returning home very quietly, I surprised both of them, squeezed one against the other, holding each others hand, looking at the picture with emotion.  I took the little cousin by the shoulders, and I threw him out of doors.  I never saw him again.  Do you understand the moral?

—­Yes, Captain, I understand, said Marcel rising again, and this time fully decided to go away.  But the door opened, and Suzanne showed herself on the threshold.

XX.