The priest started. He said nothing, but with quivering eyelids tried to force himself to look at the game. The play went on vigorously. La Teuse won her ace back, and then lost it again. On some evenings they would fight in this way over the aces for quite four hours, and often they would go off to bed, angry at having failed to bring the contest to a decisive issue. ‘But, dear me! I’ve only just remembered it!’ suddenly cried La Teuse, who greatly feared that she was going to be beaten. ‘His reverence has to go out to-night. He promised Fortune and Rosalie that he would go to bless their room, according to the custom. Make haste, Monsieur le Curé! The Brother will go with you.’ Abbé Mouret had already risen from his chair, and was looking for his hat. But Brother Archangias, still holding his cards, flew into a tantrum: ‘Oh! don’t bother about it,’ said he. ‘What does it want to be blessed for that pigsty of theirs? It is a custom that you should do away with. I can’t see any sense in it. Stay here and let us finish the game. That is much the best thing to do.’ ‘No,’ said the priest, ‘I promised to go. Those good people might feel hurt if I didn’t. You stay here and play your game out while you are waiting for me.’ La Teuse glanced uneasily at Brother Archangias. ‘Well, yes, I will stay here,’ cried the Brother. ‘It is really too absurd.’ But before Abbé Mouret could open the door, he flung his cards on the table and rose to follow him. Then half turning back he called to La Teuse: ‘I should have won. Leave the cards as they are, and we will play the game out to-morrow.’ ‘Oh! they are all mixed now,’ answered the old servant, who had lost no time in shuffling them together. ‘Did you suppose that I was going to put your hand away under a glass case? And, besides, I might very well have won, for I still had an ace left.’ A few strides brought Brother Archangias up with Abbé Mouret, who was walking down the narrow path that led to the village. The Brother had undertaken the task of keeping watch over the Abbé’s movements. He incessantly played the spy upon him, accompanying him everywhere, or, if he could not go in person, sending some school urchin to follow him. With that terrible laugh of his, he was wont to remark that he was ‘God’s gendarme.’