“The Republic does not wage systematic war on the parish priests.
And, if the fraternities had submitted to the law, many of their
difficulties would have been avoided.”
And M. Guitrel protested:
“It is a matter of principle. I should have decided in favour of the
fraternities. It is also a matter of business. The fraternities did a
great deal of good.”
The _préfet_ summed up from out of the cloud of his cigar-smoke.
“Harking back over what has been done is useless. But the new spirit is
a spirit of conciliation.”
And again M. Guitrel bowed, while Rondonneau junior bent over his
account books his bald head where the flies pitched.
One day, being asked to give her opinion about a vase that the _préfet_
was to present with his own hand to the winner in the race for
draught-horses, Madame Worms-Clavelin came to Rondonneau junior’s with
her husband. She found M. Guitrel in the jeweller’s office. He made
a feint to leave the place. But they begged him to remain. They even
consulted him as to the nymphs who formed, by their bending figures,
the handles of the cup. The _préfet_ would have preferred them to be
Amazons.
“Amazons, doubtless,” murmured the professor of sacred rhetoric.
Madame Worms-Clavelin would have liked centauresses.
“Centauresses, yes, yes,” said the priest; “or rather centaurs.”
Meanwhile Rondonneau junior was holding up the wax model in his fingers
in front of the spectators and smiling in admiration.
“Monsieur l’abbé,” asked the _préfet_, “does the Church always ban the
nude in art?”