Philippe-Auguste devoured the fish voraciously, while his father sat watching him, more and more surprised and saddened at all the baseness stamped on the face that was so like his own. The morsels the abbé raised to his lips remained in his mouth, for his throat could not swallow; so he ate slowly, trying to choose, from the host of questions which besieged his mind, the one he wished his son to answer first. At last he spoke: "What was the cause of her death?" "Consumption." "Was she ill a long time?" "About eighteen months." "How did she contract it?" "We could not tell." Both men were silent. The priest was reflecting. He was oppressed by the multitude of things he wished to know and to hear, for since the rupture, since the day he had tried to kill her, he had heard nothing. Certainly, he had not cared to know, because he had buried her, along with his happiest days, in forgetfulness; but now, knowing that she was dead and gone, he felt within himself the almost jealous desire of a lover to hear all. He continued: "She was not alone, was she?" "No, she lived with him." The old man started: "With him? With Pravallon?" "Why, yes." And the betrayed man rapidly calculated that the woman who had deceived him, had lived over thirty years with his rival. Almost unconsciously he asked: "Were they happy?" The young man sneered. "Why, yes, with ups and downs! It would have been better had I not been there. I always spoiled everything." "How, and why?" inquired the priest. "I have already told you. Because he thought I was his son up to my fifteenth year. But the old fellow wasn't a fool, and soon discovered the likeness. That created scenes. I used to listen behind the door. He accused mother of having deceived him. Mother would answer: 'Is it my fault? you knew quite well when you took me that I was the mistress of that other man.' You were that other man." "Ah! They spoke of me sometimes?" "Yes, but never mentioned your name before me, excepting toward the end, when mother knew she was lost. I think they distrusted me." "And you--and you learned quite early the irregularity of your mother's position?" "Why, certainly. I am not innocent and I never was. Those things are easy to guess as soon as one begins to know life." Philippe-Auguste had been filling his glass repeatedly. His eyes now were beginning to sparkle, for his long fast was favorable to the intoxicating effects of the wine. The priest noticed it and wished to caution him. But suddenly the thought that a drunkard is imprudent and loquacious flashed through him, and lifting the bottle he again filled the young man's glass. Meanwhile Marguerite had brought the chicken. Having set it on the table, she again fastened her eyes on the tramp, saying in an indignant voice: "Can't you see that he's drunk, Monsieur le Curé?" "Leave us," replied the priest, "and return to the kitchen." She went out, slamming the door. He then inquired: "What did your mother say about me?"