“Come! it is I who am the atheist, is it?” the Abbé said, smiling. “Let us come to practical matters, my child,” he added, putting an arm round Lucien’s waist. “I am forty-six years old, I am the natural son of a great lord; consequently, I have no family, and I have a heart. But, learn this, carve it on that still so soft brain of yours--man dreads to be alone. And of all kinds of isolation, inward isolation is the most appalling. The early anchorite lived with God; he dwelt in the spirit world, the most populous world of all. The miser lives in a world of imagination and fruition; his whole life and all that he is, even his sex, lies in his brain. A man’s first thought, be he leper or convict, hopelessly sick or degraded, is to find another with a like fate to share it with him. He will exert the utmost that is in him, every power, all his vital energy, to satisfy that craving; it is his very life. But for that tyrannous longing, would Satan have found companions? There is a whole poem yet to be written, a first part of _Paradise Lost_; Milton’s poem is only the apology for the revolt.” “It would be the Iliad of Corruption,” said Lucien. “Well, I am alone, I live alone. If I wear the priest’s habit, I have not a priest’s heart. I like to devote myself to some one; that is my weakness. That is my life, that is how I came to be a priest. I am not afraid of ingratitude, and I am grateful. The Church is nothing to me; it is an idea. I am devoted to the King of Spain, but you cannot give affection to a King of Spain; he is my protector, he towers above me. I want to love my creature, to mould him, fashion him to my use, and love him as a father loves his child. I shall drive in your tilbury, my boy, enjoy your success with women, and say to myself, ‘This fine young fellow, this Marquis de Rubempré, my creation whom I have brought into this great world, is my very Self; his greatness is my doing, he speaks or is silent with my voice, he consults me in everything.’ The Abbé de Vermont felt thus for Marie-Antoinette.” “He led her to the scaffold.” “He did not love the Queen,” said the priest. “HE only loved the Abbé de Vermont.” “Must I leave desolation behind me?” “I have money, you shall draw on me.” “I would do a great deal just now to rescue David Séchard,” said Lucien, in the tone of one who has given up all idea of suicide. “Say but one word, my son, and by to-morrow morning he shall have money enough to set him free.” “What! Would you give me twelve thousand francs?” “Ah! child, do you not see that we are traveling on at the rate of four leagues an hour? We shall dine at Poitiers before long, and there, if you decide to sign the pact, to give me a single proof of obedience, a great proof that I shall require, then the Bordeaux coach shall carry fifteen thousand francs to your sister----” “Where is the money?” The Spaniard made no answer, and Lucien said within himself, “There I had him; he was laughing at me.”