not, even in the holy mission of the priest, a way of being politely
severe, and of acting the gentleman to people well born?

The Abbe Brice--and there is no reason why I should conceal it--smells of
the stable, which must be prejudicial to him. He is slightly Republican,
too, wears clumsy boots, has awful nails, and when he gets new gloves,
twice a year, his fingers stand out stiff and separate.

I do not, I would have you remark, deny his admirable virtues; but say
what you like, you will never get a woman of fashion to confide her
"little affairs" to a farmer's son, and address him as "Father." Matters
must not be carried the length of absurdity; besides, this Abbe Brice
always smells detestably of snuff.

He confesses all sorts of people, and you will agree that it is not
pleasant to have one's maid or one's cook for one's visa-vis at the
confessional.

There is not a woman who understands Christian humility better than
yourself, dear Madame; but all the same you are not accustomed to travel
in an omnibus. You may be told that in heaven you will only be too happy
to call your coachman "Brother," and to say to Sarah Jane, "Sister," but
these worthy folk shall have first passed through purgatory, and fire
purifies everything. Again, what is there to assure us that Sarah Jane
will go to heaven, since you yourself, dear Madame, are not so sure of
entering there?

It is hence quite well understood why the Abbe Gelon's chapel is crowded.
If a little whispering goes on, it is because they have been waiting
three long hours, and because everybody knows one another.