At the word "tonsure" the face of Jean Baptiste became suddenly pale. He had not yet thought of this aspect of his future career. The honour, the glory of it had appealed to him, but not the sacrifice, the renunciation. Unconsciously he passed his fingers through his luxuriant black hair. "The tonsure, Pamphile, the tonsure? Truly, I cannot say. I do not know. I will ask Monsieur Paradis." "You do not know, Monsieur the savant, Monseigneur the bishop, great fool, sacred sheep’s head? Then I will tell you, simpleton. One wears the tonsure for the same reason that one has no beard, that one wears skirts, because one is no longer a man. Ah, Jean Baptiste Giroux, Girouette, you don’t like that, eh? Ah, young priest! Ah, little saint! Ah, bah! I despise you. I spit upon you. There!" Pamphile in his rage struck Jean in the face with his open hand. In this Pamphile made a sad mistake, for Jean, usually of a peaceful disposition, was a lion when aroused. Forgetting his new dignity and all his holy aspirations, he flung himself upon his tormentor, seized him by the throat with both hands and shook him as a dog might shake a rat. Pamphile, in the fear of death, cried for mercy, and Jean, his anger giving way to contempt, threw him to the ground and walked away. Presently, coming to himself, Jean ran back to Pamphile, helped him to rise, and said in a voice of great distress: "Pamphile, I am a villain. I am sorry for this. You will forgive me, will you not, Pamphile, my friend?" "Forgive you?" said Pamphile, with astonishing composure. "Oh yes, certainly. Say no more. It was all a mistake, my fault altogether. _Sacré bleu_! You are no longer a child. One must remember that." It was thus that Jean Baptiste made his first enemy. At the same time Jean discovered that he had another enemy--himself. For some days he had smothered his misgivings under his pious desires, his respect for the priest, his love for his mother, the pride of his own heart and the force of will that attaches itself to a decision; but now these misgivings arose with renewed power, and would not be put down. To be a priest, to wear the soutane, the tonsure, to be separated from the world, to hear confessions, to stand between God and man--all this seemed to him terrible and impossible. Better than his fellows he might be, but he would like to prove his superiority man to man, as in the struggle with Pamphile, and not by wearing a holy garment and an affectation of sanctity. And the vocation--what was it after all? Because he had a strong desire to do some good in the world, must he separate himself from his fellows? Was there no other way?