"Sit down, sir," he said curtly.

The secretary smiled pallidly and took the proffered accommodation.
Patoux again meditated. He was not skilled in the art of polite
conversation, and he found himself singularly at a loss.

"It would be an objection no doubt, and an irreverance perhaps to
smoke a pipe before you, Monsieur--Monsieur--"

"Cazeau," finished the secretary with another pallid smile--"Claude
Cazeau, a poor scribe,--at your service! And I beg of you, Monsieur
Jean Patoux, to smoke at your distinguished convenience!"

There was a faint tone of satire in his voice which struck Papa
Patoux as exceedingly disagreeable, though he could not quite
imagine why he found it so. He slowly reached for his pipe from the
projecting shelf above the chimney, and as slowly proceeded to fill
it with tobacco from a tin cannister close by.

"I do not think I have ever seen you in the town, Monsieur Cazeau,"
he said--"Nor at Mass in the Cathedral either?"

"No?" responded Cazeau easily, in a half-querying tone--"I do not
much frequent the streets; and I only attend the first early mass on
Sundays. My work for Monseigneur occupies my whole time."

"Ah!" and Patoux, having stuffed his pipe sufficiently, lit it, and
proceeded to smoke peaceably--"There must be much to do. Many poor
and sick who need money, and clothes, and help in every way,--and to