The curé of Saint-Exupère, the arch-priest Laprune, had been invited to
déjeuner by Abbé Guitrel. They were now both seated at the little round
table on which Joséphine had just set a flaming rum omelette.
M. Guitrel’s maid had reached the canonical age some years ago; she
wore a moustache; and assuredly bore no resemblance to the imaginary
portrait of her which set the town guffawing in the ribald tales of the
old Gallic type that were bandied about. Her face gave the lie to the
jovial slanders which circulated from the Café du Commerce to Paillot’s
shop, and from the pharmacy of the radical M. Mandar, to the jansenist
salon of M. Lerond, the retired judge. Even if it were true that the
professor of rhetoric used to allow his servant to sit at table with
him when he was dining alone, if he was in the habit of sharing with
her the little cakes that he chose with such anxious care at Dame
Magloire’s, it was only because of his pure and innocent regard for
a poor old woman, who was, in truth, both illiterate and rough, but
at the same time full of crafty wisdom and devoted to her master. She
was, in fact, filled with ambition for him and ready in her loyalty to
betray the whole world for his sake.
Unfortunately Abbé Lantaigne, the principal of the high seminary, paid
too much heed to these prurient tales about Guitrel and his domestic,
which everyone repeated and which no one believed, not even M. Mandar,
the chemist of the Rue Culture, the most rabid of the town councillors.
He had, in fact, added too much out of his own stock-in-trade to these
merry tales not to suspect in his own mind the authenticity of the
whole collection. For quite a voluminous cycle of romance had grown up
round these two prosaic people. Had he only known the _Decameron_, the
_Heptameron_ and the _Cent Nouvelles nouvelles_ better, M. Lantaigne
would frequently have discovered the source of this droll adventure, or
of that weird anecdote, which the county town generously added to the
legend of M. Guitrel and his servant Joséphine. M. Mazure, the keeper
of the municipal archives, never failed for his part, whenever he had
found some lewd story of a Churchman in an old book, to assign it to
M. Guitrel. Only M. Lantaigne actually swallowed what everyone else
said without believing.
“Patience, Monsieur l’abbé!” said Joséphine; “I will go and fetch a
spoon to baste it with.”
So saying she took a long-handled pewter spoon from the sideboard
drawer and handed it to M. Guitrel. Whilst the priest poured the
flaming spirit over the frizzling sugar, which gave out a smell of
caramel, the servant leant against the sideboard with her arms crossed
and stared at the musical clock which hung on the wall in a gilt frame;
a Swiss landscape, with a train coming out of a tunnel, a balloon in
the air, and the enamelled dial affixed to a little church tower. The
observant woman was really watching her master, for his short arm was
beginning to ache with wielding the hot spoon. She began to spur him on:
“Look sharp, Monsieur l’abbé! Don’t let it go out.”
“This dish,” said the arch-priest, “really gives out a most delicious
odour. The last time I had one like it made for me, the dish split on
account of the heat and the rum ran over the table-cloth. I was much
vexed, and what annoyed me still more was to see the consternation on
M. Tabarit’s face, for it happened when he was dining with me.”
“That’s just it!” exclaimed the servant. “M. _l’archiprêtre_ had it
served on a dish of fine porcelain. Of course, nothing could be too
fine for Monsieur. But the finer the china is, the worse it stands
fire. This dish here is of earthenware, and heat or cold makes no odds
to it. When my master is a bishop he’ll have his omelettes soufflées
served on a silver dish.”
All of a sudden the flame flickered out in the pewter spoon and M.
Guitrel stopped basting the omelette. Then he turned towards the woman
and said with a stern glance:
“Joséphine, you must never, in future, let me hear you talk in that
fashion.”
“But, my dear Guitrel,” said the curé of Saint-Exupère, “it is only
you yourself who can take exception to such words, for to others it
would seem only natural. You have been endowed with the precious gift
of intelligence. Your knowledge is profound and, were you raised to
a bishopric, it would only seem a fitting thing. Who knows whether
this simple woman has not uttered a true prophecy? Has not your name
been mentioned among those of the priests considered eligible for the
episcopal chair of Tourcoing?”
M. Guitrel pricked up his ears and gave a side-long glance, with one
eye full on the other’s profile.
He was, indeed, feeling very anxious, for his affairs were by no means
in a promising state. At the nunciature he had been obliged to content
himself with vague promises and he was beginning to be afraid of their
Roman caution. It seemed to him that M. Lantaigne was in good odour at
the Department of Religion, and, in short, his visit to Paris had only
filled him with disquieting fancies. And now, if he was giving a lunch
to the curé of Saint-Exupère, it was merely because the latter had the
key to all the wire-pulling in M. Lantaigne’s party. M. Guitrel hoped,
therefore, to worm out of the worthy curé all his opponent’s secrets.
“And why,” continued the arch-priest, “should you not be a bishop one
of these days, like M. Lantaigne?”
In the silence that followed the utterance of this name, the musical
clock struck out a shrill little tune of the olden days. It was the
hour of noon.
The hand with which Abbé Guitrel passed the earthenware dish to the
arch-priest trembled a little.
“There is,” said the latter, “a mellowness about this dish, a
mellowness that is not insipid. Your servant is a first-rate cook.”
“You were speaking of M. Lantaigne?” queried Abbé Guitrel.
“I was,” replied the arch-priest. “I don’t mean to say that at this
precise moment M. Lantaigne is the bishop-designate of Tourcoing,
for to say that would be to anticipate the course of events. But I
heard this very morning from someone who is very intimate with the
Vicar-General that the nunciature and the ministry are practically in
agreement as to the appointment of M. Lantaigne. But this, of course,
still lacks confirmation and it is quite possible that M. de Goulet
may have taken his hopes for accomplished facts, for, as you know,
he ardently desires M. Lantaigne’s success. But that the principal
will be successful seems quite probable. It is true that some time
ago a certain uncompromising attitude, which it was believed might be
justly attributed to M. Lantaigne’s opinions, may perchance have given
offence to the powers that be, inspired as they were with a harassing
distrust of the clergy. But times are changed. These heavy clouds of
mistrust have rolled away. Certain influences, too, that were formerly
considered outside the sphere of politics are beginning to work now,
even in governmental circles. They tell me, in fact, that General
Cartier de Chalmot’s support of M. Lantaigne’s candidature has been
all-powerful. This is the gossip, the still unauthenticated report,
that I have heard.”
The servant Joséphine had left the room, but her anxious shadow still
flashed from moment to moment through the half-open door.