This sentence struck the Cure to the heart like a pin prick.  It opened his wounds, already bleeding overmuch, it recalled the shameful memory which he wished to drive away, and which rose up obstinately before him.

—­You are changing our parts in a strange manner, he cried indignantly.

—­There you are vexed.  Why are you vexed?  What have I done to you?  Have I said anything wrong to you?  Do you then regret?  Ah, doubtless I am not young enough or pretty enough for you.

—­I pray; enough upon that shameful subject.  You are revolting.

—­What do you say? replied the woman, wounded to the quick.

—­I have no need to repeat it, you heard me, I think.

—­I heard you, it is true, but I thought I was mistaken.  Ah!  I am revolting! revolting!  Well, I am content to learn it from your mouth.  But it is not to-day that you ought to tell me that, sir, it was yesterday, yesterday, she cried insolently.

—­Yesterday! yesterday!  Oh! let us forget yesterday, I implore you.  I would that there were between yesterday and to-day, the night and the oblivion of the tomb.

—­Yes? is that your thought?  Well, for my part, I will forget nothing.  Oh! you are pleased to wish to forget, are you?  Therefore, you give yourself up to all your passions, you make use of a poor girl in order to satiate them, and the next day, when you are tired and weary from your debauchery, with no pity for the unhappy one who has trusted you, you say:  “Let us forget.”  Ah!  I know you all well, you virtuous gentlemen, you fine priests who preach continency and morality, you are all just the same, all of you, do you hear?

—­Veronica, be silent, in the name of Heaven.

—­I will not be silent, I will not.  So much the worse if they hear me.  What does that matter to me, poor unhappy creature that I am?  It is not I who am guilty, it is you.  It is not I who am charged to teach morality, it is you.  It is not I who preach fine sermons on Sunday about chastity and purity and morals, and who hide myself behind the shutters to watch half-naked tumblers dancing in the market-place, who entice little girls at night under some pretest or other, and who kiss them when the servant has turned her back.  Yes, yes, you have done that.  I blush for you.  And you are Monsieur le Cure!  Monsieur le Cure.  If that wouldn’t make the hens laugh.  Ah, what does it matter to me that they hear me telling you the truth, it is not I who will be despised by everybody, it will be you.  Have I gone and sought for you, have I?  You have made me tell you a lot of stories which ought not to be told except in confession, you have made me sit down beside you, drink brandy,... and then afterwards you have taken advantage of me.  Yes, you have taken advantage of your maid-servant, a poor girl who has been all her life the victim of priests like you.  No, I will not be silent, I will cry it upon the house-tops, if I must.  Ah! you have taken me like a thing which one makes use of when convenient, and which one throws away, when one has no more need of it:  I understand you; but I have more self-respect than that, although I am only a poor servant.