He went to a neighbouring wine shop where the dining-room, depopulated at six o’clock, permitted one to ruminate in tranquillity, while eating fairly sanitary food and drinking not too dangerously coloured wines.  He was thinking of Mme. Chantelouve, but more of Docre.  The mystery of this priest haunted him.  What could be going on in the soul of a man who had had the figure of Christ tattooed on his heels the better to trample Him?

What hate the act revealed!  Did Docre hate God for not having given him the blessed ecstasies of a saint, or more humanly for not having raised him to the highest ecclesiastical dignities?  Evidently the spite of this priest was inordinate and his pride unlimited.  He seemed not displeased to be an object of terror and loathing, for thus he was somebody.  Then, for a thorough-paced scoundrel, as this man seemed to be, what delight to make his enemies languish in slow torment by casting spells on them with perfect impunity.

“And sacrilege carries one out of oneself in furious transports, in voluptuous delirium, which nothing can equal.  Since the Middle Ages it has been the coward’s crime, for human justice does not prosecute it, and one can commit it with impunity, but it is the most extreme of excesses for a believer, and Docre believes in Christ, or he wouldn’t hate Him so.

“A monster!  And what ignoble relations he must have had with Chantelouve’s wife!  Now, how shall I make her speak up?  She gave me quite clearly to understand, the other day, that she refused to explain herself on this topic.  Meanwhile, as I have not intention of submitting to her young girl follies tonight, I will tell her that I am not feeling well, and that absolute rest and quiet are necessary.”

He did so, an hour later when she came in.

She proposed a cup of tea, and when he refused, she embraced him and nursed him like a baby.  Then withdrawing a little, “You work too hard.  You need some relaxation.  Come now, to pass the time you might court me a little, because up to now I have done it all.  No?  That idea does not amuse him.  Let us try something else.  Shall we play hide-and-seek with the cat?  He shrugs his shoulders.  Well, since there is nothing to change your grouchy expression, let us talk.  What has become of your friend Des Hermies?”

“Nothing in particular.”

“And his experiments with Mattei medicine?”

“I don’t know whether he continues to prosecute them or not.”

“Well, I see that the conversational possibilities of that topic are exhausted.  You know your replies are not very encouraging, dear.”

“But,” he said, “everybody sometimes gets so he doesn’t answer questions at great length.  I even know a young woman who becomes excessively laconic when interrogated on a certain subject.”

“Of a canon, for instance.”

“Precisely.”

She crossed her legs, very coolly.  “That young woman undoubtedly had reasons for keeping still.  But perhaps that young woman is really eager to oblige the person who cross-examines her; perhaps, since she last saw him, she has gone to a great deal of trouble to satisfy his curiosity.”