The bishop was too much astonished to speak. He stared at the priest, as though he would stare him down. The guests looked round almost as much surprised as the prince or the bishop, so utterly incongruous was the apparition with the place. The look, full of pain, stern and passionate, contrasted terribly with the faces of the banqueters, creased with laughter. The pale complexion, speaking too plainly of want and hunger--why did that look upon them as they sat at tables groaning under viands and wines of the most costly description? The dress, so ragged and dusty, was quite out of place amongst silks and velvets. The bishop waved his hand with dignity, and his episcopal ring glittered in the lights as he did so. But Lindet did not move. Then, addressing his butler over the back of his chair, the prelate said: ‘Chopin, tell the fellow to go quietly. If he is hungry, take him into the servants’ hall and give him some supper.’ Lindet put his hand into his bosom, and drew forth a little moleskin purse,--a little rude purse, made by one of the acolytes of Bernay out of the skins of the small creatures he had snared, and given as a mark of affection to his priest. He emptied the contents of this purse into his shaking palm, and with agitated fingers, he counted twenty-five livres, put the rest--it was very little--back into the mole-skin bag; and then, holding the money, he mounted the daïs. ‘Go down, sir, go down!’ said the indignant prelate; and several footmen rushed to the priest to remove him. ‘Leave me alone,’ said Lindet, thrusting the servants off; ‘I have business to transact with my diocesan.’ ‘What do you want?’ asked the bishop, his red face turning purple with wrath and insulted pride; ‘get you gone, and see me at proper times and in proper places!’ ‘Monseigneur,’ answered Lindet in a clear voice, ‘I have walked through dust and heat from Bernay to speak to you, and I am told I cannot see you for a whole week.’ ‘Go, go!’ said the bishop; ‘I do not wish to have an unpleasant scene, and to order you to be dragged from my table. Go quietly. I will see you to-morrow.’ ‘No,’ Lindet answered; ‘you would not receive me privately this afternoon, now you shall receive me publicly, whether the time suits or not. You have fined me, unheard, for not having lit my sanctuary-lamp. I had neither oil nor money; therefore I must pay you a heavy fine. There is the money--’ he leaned across the table, and placed it in the bishop’s plate. ‘Count it,--twenty-five livres; and next time your lordship gives a feast, spend what you have wrung from me in buying--’ he ran his eye along the table, and it lit on a pie,--‘goose-liver pasties for your distinguished guests.’ It was a random shot, a bow drawn at a venture, but it went in at the joints of the mail, and smote to the heart. Lindet turned from the table and walked away.