“But you will be absolutely drenched. Might I ask in which direction you
are going?”
The priest appeared to hesitate. Then he said:
“I am going in the direction of the Palais Royal.”
“In that case, if you will allow me, Monsieur l'Abbe, I will offer you
the shelter of my umbrella: As for me, I am going to the council. I am a
councillor of state.”
The old priest raised his head and looked at his neighbor and then
exclaimed:
“I thank you, monsieur. I shall be glad to accept your offer.”
M. Marin then took his arm and led him away. He directed him, watched
over him and advised him.
“Be careful of that stream, Monsieur l'Abbe. And be very careful about
the carriage wheels; they spatter you with mud sometimes from head to
foot. Look out for the umbrellas of the people passing by; there is
nothing more dangerous to the eyes than the tips of the ribs. Women
especially are unbearable; they pay no heed to where they are going
and always jab you in the face with the point of their parasols or
umbrellas. And they never move aside for anybody. One would suppose the
town belonged to them. They monopolize the pavement and the street. It
is my opinion that their education has been greatly neglected.”
And M. Marin laughed.
The priest did not reply. He walked along, slightly bent over, picking
his steps carefully so as not to get mud on his boots or his cassock.