When he has spoken, he collapses on to a stone.  With his fist, whose leather is covered with red hair, like a cow’s, he hides the squalid face that looks as if it had been spat upon.  “Folks aren’t wicked,” he says, “but they’re stupid, stupid, stupid.”

And Brisbille cries.

Just then Father Piot advances into the space, with his silver aureole, his benevolent smile, and the vague and continuous lisping which trickles from his lips.  He stops in the middle of us, gives a nod to each one and continuing his ingenuous reflections aloud, he murmurs, “Hem, hem!  The most important thing of all, in war, is the return to religious ideas.  Hem!”

The monstrous calm of the saying makes me start, and communicates final agitation to Brisbille.  Throwing himself upright, the blacksmith flourishes his trembling fist, tries to hold it under the old priest’s chin, and bawls, “You?  Shall I tell you how you make me feel, eh?  Why——­”

Some young men seize him, hustle him and throw him down.  His head strikes the ground and he is at last immobile.  Father Piot raises his arms to heaven and kneels over the vanquished madman.  There are tears in the old man’s eyes.

When we have made a few steps away I cannot help saying to Marie, with a sort of courage, that Brisbille is not wrong in all that he says.  Marie is shocked, and says, “Oh!”

“There was a time,” she says, reproachfully, “when you set about him!”

I should like Marie to understand what I am wanting to say.  I explain to her, that although he may be a drunkard and a brute, he is right in what he thinks.  He stammers and hiccups the truth, but it was not he who made it, and it is whole and pure.  He is a degraded prophet, but the relics of his dreams have remained accurate.  And that saintly old man, who is devotion incarnate, who would not harm a fly, he is only a lowly servant of lies; but he brings his little link to the chain, and he smiles on the side of the executioners.

“One shouldn’t ever confuse ideas with men.  It’s a mistake that does a lot of harm.”

Marie lowers her head and says nothing; then she murmurs, “Yes, that’s true.”

I pick up the little sentence she has given me.  It is the first time that approval of that sort has brought her near to me.  She has intelligence within her; she understands certain things.  Women, in spite of thoughtless impulses, are quicker in understanding than men.  Then she says to me, “Since you came back, you’ve been worrying your head too much.”

Crillon was on our heels.  He stands in front of me, and looks displeased.