We had our cure at dinner.  We were quite sure no one else would ask him and it seemed a shame to leave him in his empty “presbytere” on a fete day.  I think his evenings with us are the only bright spots in his life just now.  The situation of the priests is really wretched and their future most uncertain.  This government has taken away the very small stipend they allowed them.  Our cure got his house and nine hundred francs a year—­not quite two hundred dollars.  In many cases they have refused to let the priests live in their “presbyteres” unless they pay rent.  The churches are still open.  They can have their services if they like, but those who have no fortune (which is the case with most of them) are entirely dependent upon the voluntary contribution of their parishioners.

Our little cure has no longer his servant—­the traditional, plain, middle-aged bonne of the priest (they are not allowed to have a woman servant under fifty).  He lives quite alone in his cold, empty house and has a meal of some kind brought into him from the railway cafe.  What is hardest for him is never to have an extra franc to give to his poor.  He is profoundly discouraged, but does his duty simply and cheerfully; looks after the sick, nurses them when there is a long illness or an accident, teaches the women how to keep their houses clean and how to cook good plain food.  He is a farmer’s son and extraordinarily practical.  He came to us one day to ask if we had a spare washing tub we could give him.  He was going to show a woman who sewed and embroidered beautifully and who was very poor and unpractical, how to do her washing.  I think the people have a sort of respect for him, but they don’t come to church.  Everybody appeals to him.  We couldn’t do anything one day with a big kite some one had given the children.  No one could in the house, neither gardener, chauffeur, nor footmen, so we sent for him, and it was funny to see him shortening the tail of the kite and racing over the lawn in his black soutane.  However, he made it work.

He was rather embarrassed this evening, as he had refused something I had asked him to do and was afraid I wouldn’t understand.  We were passing along the canal the other day when the “eclusier” came out of his house and asked me if I would come and look at his child who was frightfully ill—­his wife in despair.  Without thinking of my little ones at home, I went into the house, where I found, in a dirty, smelly room, a slatternly woman holding in her arms a child, about two years old, who, I thought, was dead—­such a ghastly colour—­eyes turned up; however, the poor little thing moaned and moved and the woman was shaken with sobs—­the father and two older children standing there, not knowing what to do.  They told me the doctor had come in the early morning and said there was nothing to do.  I asked if they had not sent for the cure.  “No, they hadn’t thought of it.”  I said I would tell him as I passed the presbytere on my way home.  He wasn’t there, but I left word that the child was dying—­could he go?