"M. Chalamel, you said a black robe, I thought."

"It is the cure, goose! Let him be an example for you."

"The cure of the parish? The good pastor?"

"Himself."

"He is a worthy man!"

"He is no Jesuit, not he."

"I think not; and if all the priests were like him everybody would be
devout."

"Silence! some one opens the door."

And all the clerks, bending over their desks, began to scratch away with
apparent industry, making their pens pass rapidly over the paper. The pale
face of this priest was at once mild and grave, intelligent and venerable,
its expression full of benevolence and serenity. A small black cap
concealed his tonsure, and his long gray hair floated on the collar of his
maroon-colored coat. Let us add that, from his simple credulity, this
excellent priest had always been, and was still, the dupe of Jacques
Ferrand's deep and cunning hypocrisy.

"Your worthy master is in his cabinet, my son?" asked the cure.

"Yes, M. l'Abbe," said Chalamel, rising respectfully. And he opened for the