“Patience!” he replied. “First of all the wound must be washed, and I must wait till the water gets warm.” My good tutor, a little restored, said slowly, but with a fairly strong voice: “Lamp in hand, he’ll visit the corners of Jerusalem, and what is hidden in darkness will be brought to light.” “What do you mean, dear master?” “Don’t, my son,” he replied; “I’m entertaining the sentiments fit for my state.” “The water is hot,” the barber said to me. “Hold the basin close to the bed. I’ll wash the wound.” And while he pressed on my tutor’s breast a sponge soaked in hot water, the vicar entered the room with Madame Coquebert. He had a basket and a pair of vine shears in his hand. “Here is then the poor man,” said he. “I was going to my vineyard, but that of Jesus Christ has to be attended to first; my son,” he said as he approached the stricken abbé, “offer your wound to our Lord. Perhaps it’s not so serious as it’s thought to be. And for the rest, we must obey God’s will.” Turning to the barber, he asked: “Is it very urgent, M. Coquebert, or could I go to my vineyard? The white ones can wait; it’s not bad if they do get a little overripe, and a little rain would only produce more and better wine. But the red must be gathered at once.” “You speak the truth, Monsieur le Cure,” M. Coquebert replied. “I’ve in my vineyard some grapes which cover themselves with a certain moisture, and which escape the sun only to perish by the rain.” “Alas!” said the vicar, “humidity and drought are the two enemies of the vine-grower.” “Nothing is truer,” said the barber, “but I’ll inspect the wound.” Having said so he pushed one of his fingers into the wound. “Ah! Torturer!” exclaimed the patient. “Remember,” said the vicar, “that our Lord forgave His torturers.” “They were not barbarous,” said the abbe. “That’s a wicked word,” said the vicar. “You must not torment a dying man for his jokes,” said my good master. “But I suffer horribly; that man assassinates me and I die twofold. The first time was by the hands of a Jew.” “What does he mean?” asked the vicar. “It is best, reverend sir,” said the barber, “not to trouble yourself about it. You must never want to hear the talk of a patient. They are only dreams.” “Coquebert,” said the vicar, “you don’t speak well. Patients’ confessions must be listened to, and some Christians who never in all their lives said a good word may, at the end, pronounce words which open Paradise to them.” “I spoke temporally only,” said the barber. “Monsieur le Cure,” I said, “the Abbe Coignard, my good master, does not wander in his mind, and it is but too true that he has been murdered by a Jew of the name of Mosaide.” “In that case,” replied the vicar, “he has to see a special favour of God, who willed that he perishes by the hand of a nephew of those who crucified His Son. The behaviour of Providence is always admirable. M. Coquebert, can I go to my vineyard?”