He could find nothing to say, but he was furious, he was good and angry.

Ill-natured people added: 

“It is a good piece of work; and will bring in not less than two or three per cent. profit.”

Two days later, they heard that the work of renovation had been entrusted to Celestin Chambrelan, the carpenter from Percheville.  Then this was denied, and it was said that all the pews in the church were going to be changed.  That would be well worth the two thousand francs that had been demanded of the church administration.

Theodule Sabot could not sleep for thinking about it.  Never, in all the memory of man, had a country carpenter undertaken a similar piece of work.  Then a rumor spread abroad that the cure felt very grieved that he had to give this work to a carpenter who was a stranger in the community, but that Sabot’s opinions were a barrier to his being entrusted with the job.

Sabot knew it well.  He called at the parsonage just as it was growing dark.  The servant told him that the cure was at church.  He went to the church.

Two attendants on the altar of the Virgin, two soar old maids, were decorating the altar for the month of Mary, under the direction of the priest, who stood in the middle of the chancel with his portly paunch, directing the two women who, mounted on chairs, were placing flowers around the tabernacle.

Sabot felt ill at ease in there, as though he were in the house of his greatest enemy, but the greed of gain was gnawing at his heart.  He drew nearer, holding his cap in his hand, and not paying any attention to the “demoiselles de la Vierge,” who remained standing startled, astonished, motionless on their chairs.

He faltered: 

“Good morning, monsieur le cure.”

The priest replied without looking at him, all occupied as he was with the altar: 

“Good morning, Mr. Carpenter.”

Sabot, nonplussed, knew not what to say next.  But after a pause he remarked: 

“You are making preparations?”

Abbe Maritime replied: 

“Yes, we are near the month of Mary.”

“Why, why,” remarked Sabot and then was silent.  He would have liked to retire now without saying anything, but a glance at the chancel held him back.  He saw sixteen seats that had to be remade, six to the right and eight to the left, the door of the sacristy occupying the place of two.  Sixteen oak seats, that would be worth at most three hundred francs, and by figuring carefully one might certainly make two hundred francs on the work if one were not clumsy.

Then he stammered out: 

“I have come about the work.”

The cure appeared surprised.  He asked: 

“What work?”

“The work to be done,” murmured Sabot, in dismay.

Then the priest turned round and looking him straight in the eyes, said: 

“Do you mean the repairs in the chancel of my church?”