Jean Baptiste had his turn on the following day at school, and for several days he was a personage among his associates. The teacher and the older pupils treated him with respect, while the younger children worshipped him like a god. Jean was exalted. He thought it a fine thing, like Joseph of old, to have the sun, moon and eleven stars bow down before him. Already he saw himself in the streets of Quebec, a full-fledged priest, in black hat and cassock, graciously returning the salutations of the leading citizens as he passed along. Now he was curé of his native parish, a man of power in the community, to whom all the inhabitants paid tithes, and before whom they all, from time to time, confessed their sins. Now he stood at the high altar, clad in gorgeous vestments, changing the bread and wine into the true body and blood of the Lord, elevating the Host, while all the people prostrated themselves before the good God and before his priest, Jean Baptiste Giroux. Truly, Jean had forgotten, or had never known, that pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall. The dominion of Jean over his fellow pupils was not complete. Pamphile Lareau did not join in the worship of the new divinity, but scoffed at the whole performance. Pamphile was one of the emancipated. Had he not often visited his uncle, the cab driver, at Quebec, to whom priests, and even bishops were very ordinary persons? As for collegians, they were of no account at all. Had he not seen hundreds, yes, thousands of collegians, in their blue coats, green caps and sashes, promenading the streets like girls from a nunnery, two by two, a pair of ecclesiastics in front and a pair behind? Had he not thrown stones at the precious saints, and even mud; the nice sticky mud of the Rue Champlain? And what did they do, the holy ones? They wept, because their new clothes were stained with mud. Ah, bah! What was a collegian? And what was this Jean Baptiste, this sprig of divinity, this budding bishop, this little pope? The children were fascinated by the conversation of Pamphile, though shocked at his levity in making mock of sacred things. He was jealous, evidently, since Jean could read so much better than he, and was in every way a better scholar, though nearly two years younger. It was a pity that Pamphile was so wicked, for he was certainly a fine young man, tall and handsome. But what would happen if Jean heard him talk? Jean was no coward, by any means, but of a fiery temper and very strong for his age. While this discussion was going on Jean approached, and Pamphile began again, more violently than before. "There he comes, the angel of whom we have been speaking. You will see, you others, what I will do to him." "Ah, good morning, Monseigneur," said the young scoffer, with mock humility, bowing low before Jean. "Deign to inform us, if you please, why a priest wears a tonsure, why he has a bald spot on his head like an old man."