M. _le Préfet_ Worms-Clavelin was chatting with Abbé Guitrel in the
shop of Rondonneau junior, goldsmith and jeweller. He leant back in an
arm-chair and crossed his legs so that the sole of one of his boots
stuck up towards the placid old man’s chin.
“Monsieur l’abbé, it is useless for you to speak: you are an
enlightened priest; you see in religion a collection of moral precepts,
a necessary discipline, and not a set of antiquated dogmas, of
mysteries whose absurdity is only too little mysterious.”
As a priest, M. Guitrel had excellent rules of conduct. One of these
rules was to avoid scandal and to hold his tongue, rather than expose
the truth to the mockery of unbelievers. And, as this precaution agreed
with the bent of his character, he observed it scrupulously. But M.
_le préfet_ Worms-Clavelin was lacking in discretion. His vast, fleshy
nose, his thick lips, seemed like a powerful apparatus of suction and
absorption, whilst his receding forehead, above his great pale eyes,
betrayed his opposition to all moral delicacy. He persisted, marshalled
against Christian dogmas the arguments of the masonic lodges and the
literary cafés, and concluded by saying that it was impossible for an
intelligent man to believe a word of the Catechism. Then, bringing down
his fat, beringed hand on the priest’s shoulder, he said:
“You don’t answer, my dear abbé; you are of my opinion.”