LITMIR.BIZ

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He dislikes me, as if he thought I loved you; and he prevents me from telling you of a way that I think I have found to place you in the sphere for which you were destined. No, madame,” he continued, rising, “the Abbe Gondrin will not preach this year through Lent at our humble Saint-Jacques du Haut-Pas; the preacher will be Monsieur d’Estival, a compatriot of mine, and you will hear in him one of the most impressive speakers that I have ever known—a priest whose outward appearance is not agreeable, but, oh! what a soul!”

      “Then my desire will be gratified,” said poor Madame Thuillier. “I have never yet been able to understand a famous preacher.”

      A smile flickered on the lips of Mademoiselle Thuillier and several others who heard the remark.

      “They devote themselves too much to theological demonstration,” said Theodose. “I have long thought so myself—but I never talk religion; if it had not been for Madame de Colleville, I—”

      “Are there demonstrations in theology?” asked the professor of mathematics, naively, plunging headlong into the conversation.

      “I think, monsieur,” replied Theodose, looking straight at Felix Phellion, “that you cannot be serious in asking me such a question.”

      “Felix,” said old Phellion, coming heavily to the rescue of his son, and catching a distressed look on the pale face of Madame Thuillier—“Felix separates religion into two categories; he considers it from the human point of view and the divine point of view—tradition and reason.”

      “That is heresy, monsieur,” replied Theodose. “Religion is one; it requires, above all things, faith.”

      Old Phellion, nonplussed by that remark, nodded to his wife:—

      “It is getting late, my dear,” and he pointed to the clock.

      “Oh, Monsieur Felix,” said Celeste in a whisper to the candid mathematician, “Couldn’t you be, like Pascal and Bossuet, learned and pious both?”

      The Phellions, on departing, carried the Collevilles with them. Soon no one remained in the salon but Dutocq, Theodose, and the Thuilliers.

      The flattery administered by Theodose to Flavie seems at the first sight coarsely commonplace, but we must here remark, in the interests of this history, that the barrister was keeping himself as close as possible to these vulgar minds; he was navigating their waters; he spoke their language. His painter was Pierre Grassou, and not Joseph Bridau; his book was “Paul and Virginia.” The greatest living poet for him was Casimire de la Vigne; to his eyes the mission of art was, above all things, utility. Parmentier, the discoverer of the potato, was greater to him that thirty Raffaelles; the man in the blue cloak seemed to him a sister of charity. These were Thuillier’s expressions, and Theodose remembered them all—on occasion.

      “That young Felix Phellion,” he now remarked, “is precisely the academical man of our day; the product of knowledge which sends God to the rear. Heavens, what are we coming to? Religion alone can save France; nothing but the fear of hell will preserve us from domestic robbery, which is going on at all hours in the bosom of families, and eating into the surest fortunes. All of you have a secret warfare in your homes.”

      After this shrewd tirade, which made a great impression upon Brigitte, he retired, followed by Dutocq, after wishing good evening to the three Thuilliers.

      “That young man has great capacity,” said Thuillier, sententiously.

      “Yes, that he has,” replied Brigitte, extinguishing the lamps.

      “He has religion,” said Madame Thuillier, as she left the room.

      “Monsieur,” Phellion was saying to Colleville as they came abreast of the Ecole de Mines, looking about him to see that no one was near, “it is usually my custom to submit my insight to that of others, but it is impossible for me not to think that that young lawyer plays the master at our friend Thuillier’s.”

      “My own opinion,” said Colleville, who was walking with Phellion behind his wife, Madame Phellion, and Celeste, “is that he’s a Jesuit; and I don’t like Jesuits; the best of them are no good. To my mind a Jesuit means knavery, and knavery for knavery’s sake; they deceive for the pleasure of deceiving, and, as the saying is, to keep their hand in. That’s my opinion, and I don’t mince it.”

      “I understand you, monsieur,” said Phellion, who was arm-in-arm with Colleville.

      “No, Monsieur Phellion,” remarked Flavie in a shrill voice, “you don’t understand Colleville; but I know what he means, and I think he had better stop saying it. Such subjects are not to be talked of in the street, at eleven o’clock at night, and before a young lady.”

      “You are right, wife,” said Colleville.

      When they reached the rue des Deux-Eglises, which Phellion was to take, they all stopped to say good-night, and Felix Phellion, who was bring up the rear, said to Colleville:—

      “Monsieur, your son Francois could enter the Ecole Polytechnique if he were well-coached; I propose to you to fit him to pass the examinations this year.”

      “That’s an offer not to be refused! Thank you, my friend,” said Colleville. “We’ll see about it.”

      “Good!” said Phellion to his son, as they walked on.

      “Not a bad stroke!” said the mother.

      “What do you mean by that?” asked Felix.

      “You are very cleverly paying court to Celeste’s parents.”

      “May I never find the solution of my problem if I even thought of it!” cried the young professor. “I discovered, when talking with the little Collevilles, that Francois has a strong turn for mathematics, and I thought I ought to enlighten his father.”

      “Good, my son!” repeated Phellion. “I wouldn’t have you otherwise. My prayers are granted! I have a son whose honor, probity, and private and civic virtues are all that I could wish.”

      Madame Colleville, as soon as Celeste had gone to bed, said to her husband:—

      “Colleville, don’t utter those blunt opinions about people without knowing something about them. When you talk of Jesuits I know you mean priests; and I wish you would do me the kindness to keep your opinions on religion to yourself when you are in company with your daughter. We may sacrifice our own souls, but not the souls of our children. You don’t want Celeste to be a creature without religion? And remember, my dear, that we are at the mercy of others; we have four children to provide for; and how do you know that, some day or other, you may not need the services of this one or that one? Therefore don’t make enemies. You haven’t any now, for you are a good-natured fellow; and, thanks to that quality, which amounts in you to a charm, we have got along pretty well in life, so far.”

      “That’s enough!” said Colleville, flinging his coat on a chair and pulling off his cravat. “I’m wrong, and you are right, my beautiful Flavie.”

      “And on the next occasion, my dear old sheep,” said the sly creature, tapping her husband’s cheek, “you must try to be polite to that young lawyer; he is a schemer and we had better have him on our side. He is playing comedy—well! play comedy with him; be his dupe apparently; if he proves to have talent, if he has a future before him, make a friend of him. Do you think I want to see you forever in the mayor’s office?”

      “Come, wife Colleville,” said the former clarionet, tapping his knee to indicate the place he wished his wife to take. “Let us warm our toes and talk.—When I look at you I am more than ever convinced that the youth of women is in their figure.”

      “And in their heart.”

      “Well, both,” assented Colleville; “waist slender, heart solid—”

      “No, you old stupid, deep.”

      “What is good about you is that you

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