"Madame Tabeau, take care what you say. You speak of Monsieur Gamache, no doubt. He is old, perhaps, and not at all handsome, but he is no sorcerer. On the contrary, I think him a good man. In any case, he is my friend, as you say, and I do not wish to hear you give him evil names." "You do not wish it, your lordship? Very well, I will not say it. He is a good man, a saint, perhaps, or possibly an angel in disguise. Who knows? But what species of angel, eh? You are sure? You can tell? What did the curé say in his sermon last Sunday? I go to Mass, as you know, every Sunday, to confession also, at least once a year. But what did the curé say? Satan can deceive the saints even, when he puts on his best clothes. But not Jean Baptiste Giroux. Oh, no! Nobody could fool him, not even a woman, certainly not a poor old woman like me." Mère Tabeau relapsed into silence, puffing at her black pipe, but steadily regarding Jean with her fish-like eyes. His curiosity was aroused. "Madame Tabeau," he said, in a conciliating tone, "do not be angry. I was to blame. You may say what you please. You have something to tell me, and I will gladly listen." "Oh, he will listen; his grandeur will deign to hear what the old woman has to say. But he will hear nothing." "Madame Tabeau, I am a fool, as you have said, in effect, and I believe everybody. It is quite possible that I may be deceived, as on some former occasions. But you are a wise woman, Madame, and you know something. Will you not tell it to me for my advantage? I shall be grateful, even if you tell me what I do not wish to hear." "Well, Jean, that is better. You have some sense left, in spite of your studies, a little intelligence still, strange to say. Sit down here on the step; no, not so far away; right here beside me. I will not hurt you, and the young ladies will not be jealous. Forty years ago they might have been annoyed, the vixens, but not now. Listen! There is a story, certainly. You shall hear it, no one else. "At that time they did not call me Mère Tabeau. Bonhomme Tabeau, the old sot, had not yet come on the scene. He was rich, the old miser--that was why I married him. Yes, and he died, as expected, in the course of a few years. But can you believe it? The old beast did not leave me one _sou_, not one sou--that was what I did not expect. All was for masses for his soul. The old fool! His soul is in the pit, where no masses can help him. I know theology, me. Masses can pull one out of purgatory, of course; but from the pit, never. Ah, that was one who got his deserts. His money goes to the priests, whom he did not love, and his soul remains with Satan. _Cru-ru-ru de Dieu_!"