“This Lantaigne is steeped in the most detestable spirit of clericalism! He owes me a grudge? What has he got against me? Am I not tolerant and liberal enough? Did I not shut my eyes when on all sides the monks and nuns re-entered the convents, the schools? For if we vigorously uphold the essential laws of the Republic, we hardly enforce them. But priests are incorrigible. You are all the same. You cry out that you are being oppressed as soon as you yourself are not oppressing. And what does he say about me, this Lantaigne of yours?” “Nothing definite can be set forth against the administration of M. _le préfet_ Worms-Clavelin, but an uncompromising soul like M. Lantaigne never forgives either your association with freemasonry or your Jewish origin.” The _préfet_ shook the ash from his cigar. “The Jews are no friends of mine. I have no ties in the Jewish world. But be tranquil, my dear abbé, I give you my word that M. Lantaigne shall not be bishop of Tourcoing. I have enough influence in the bureaux to checkmate him. … Just listen to me, Guitrel: I had no money when I started out in life. I made connections for myself. Connections are worth nearly as much as wealth. I have many and good ones. I shall be on the watch to see that Abbé Lantaigne cuts his own throat in the bureaux. Besides, my wife has a candidate for the bishopric of Tourcoing. And that candidate is you, Guitrel.” At this word, Abbé Guitrel cast down his eyes and flung up his arms. “I, sit in the seat sanctified by the blessed Loup and by so many pious apostles of Northern Gaul! Can such a thought have occurred to Madame Worms-Clavelin?” “My dear Guitrel, she wishes that you should wear the mitre. And I assure you she is powerful enough to create a bishop. For my part, I shall not be sorry to give a Republican bishop to the Republic. That’s understood, my dear Guitrel; you look after the Archbishop and the nuncio; my wife and I will set the bureaux in motion.” And M. Guitrel murmured with clasped hands: “The ancient and venerable see of Tourcoing!” “A third-class bishopric, a mere hole, my dear abbé. But one must make a beginning. Why! do you know where I started my career in official life? At Céret! I was _sous-préfet_ of Céret, in the Pyrénées-Orientales! Would any one credit it? … But I am wasting my time gossiping … Good evening, Monseigneur.” The _préfet_ held out his hand to the priest. And M. Guitrel went off along the winding street of the Tintelleries, humbly and with shoulders bent, yet planning cunning measures and promising himself, on the day when he wore the mitre and grasped the crozier, to resist the civil Government, like a prince of the Church, to fight the freemasons and to hurl anathemas at the principles of freethought, the Republic, and the Revolution. IX