“All the world is here,” he said, “to-night. I find you on your throne, madame, the queen of the village.” Madame Dupré was so pleased that she accorded him a civility shown to few. She got up to offer him a seat, and called to Baptiste to bring her a certain precious little bottle. “Monsieur must taste it--it is genuine,” she said; “it was brought me from the hands of the monks who have the secret.” “Ah, the monks!” some one said; “they like to keep all the good things to themselves.” “And with good reason,” said Mr Goulburn. “Could I make anything so good as this, certainly I should keep it to myself.” This _mot_ had a little _succès_ in the company which pleased its author. It is hard to say how far down we will go for applause without any sense of lowering ourselves. Praise is always pleasant. “Monsieur has reason,” said Madame Dupré. “I am not _dévote_, but now and then I like to hear one who will say a good word for the clergy.” Old M. Goudron, who was sitting by, took his cigar out of his mouth. “Madame is too good,” said the old man; “she would say a good word for the devil, if there is such a person, and if he were a customer at the Lion d’Or.” “The clergy are no customers of mine, nor do I hold with them any more than you do,” Madame Dupré began, with rising colour, when the Englishman poured oil on the waves. “In my country,” he said, “the clergy are not a separate class as in yours. They marry and live like other men; but no one in England speaks of them as you do here in France. They do a great deal of good among us. They take care of the poor.” “Pah! a married priest!” cried Madame Dupré, with an expression of disgust. “I am no bigot, but I could not put up with that.” “And as for what monsieur says about the poor,” cried M. Goudron, “there ought not to be any poor. A man who wants help, who cannot keep himself alive, there is no place for him in the world.” At this a little murmur rose, and one of the silent spectators spoke. “We are all poor,” he said; “and when there is a bad harvest, or a bad winter, or illness in the house, how are we to live without the help of a kind hand?” “Ah, it is you, Paul le Roux; every one knows why you speak. There is solidarity between the enemies of mankind,--the priest and the aristocrat; they have but one end. It is for this they wander about the village to take persons at a disadvantage who may happen to be badly off. You do not see how their charity is an impudence. What! give you their crumbs, and their fragments! ‘Take what falls from my table, I am better than thou.’ It is an insult--such an insult,” old Goudron said suddenly, with the grin that divided his face in two, “as I never would venture to offer to any neighbours of mine.” At this there was a general laugh. “Père Goudron,” said some one from the window, “will never fail in respect to his neighbours in that way.” “Never!” cried the old man, with his malignant grin.