‘I think,’ said Monseigneur de Narbonne, ‘that I have heard quite enough of this,--enough to satisfy me that M. Lindet is not a fit person to minister in my diocese. I will trouble you,’ he added, turning to M. Ponce, ‘to give me that paper you have been so diligently and kindly drawing up for me. I must inform you,’ he said, turning his face towards Lindet, ‘that I withdraw your licence, and inhibit you from performing any ecclesiastical function within my jurisdiction till further notice.’ He took the paper from his secretary, and in a bold hand signed it--‘F. EBRO.’ ‘You condemn and punish me, you destroy my character, and ruin me, without investigating the charge laid against me,’ said the priest. ‘You have acknowledged that the charge is substantially correct.’ ‘I have not acknowledged it, nor can you prove that my moral character is thereby affected.’ ‘I am quite satisfied that you are greatly to blame,’ said the bishop. ‘I will not hold a public investigation, because it would only increase the scandal, and I desire to spare you and the Church that shame. I am satisfied that you are to blame; that is enough.’ ‘I demand a thorough investigation,’ said the curé, with great firmness. ‘You may demand one,’ answered the bishop, ‘but you shall not get one.’ ‘What!’ exclaimed Lindet; ‘I am to be ruined, and to be deprived of the means of clearing myself!’ ‘_I_ am satisfied,’ said the bishop, drawing himself up. ‘But I am not,’ retorted the priest. The bishop bowed stiffly, and then turning to M. Ponce, said: ‘I think we will proceed with other business. Good morning, M. Lindet. Here is your inhibition.’ The curé stood silent for a moment, looking first at the secretary, then at Foulon, who was engaged in pouring snuff into his palm; then at the bishop, who had taken up one of the peaches, and with a silver pocket-knife was pealing it. ‘My lord bishop!’ said Lindet, ‘hear what I say. We, the priests of the Church of France, have groaned under an intolerable oppression: we have been subject, without redress, to the whims and caprices of the bishop; neither justice nor liberty has been accorded us. I shall resist this treatment. I shall not submit to be crushed without a struggle. I appeal to the law.’ ‘You have no appeal,’ said the prelate, coldly; ‘you are a mere curate,--a stipendiary curate, and not an incumbent; the incumbent is under the protection of the law, the curate is removable at the will of the bishop.’ Lindet paused again. ‘These peaches are delicious,’ said the bishop to Foulon.