“Injury to religion, madame!” exclaimed the vicar-general. “Religion is too lofty for the actions of men to injure.” (“My religion is I,” thought he.) “God makes no mistake in His judgments, madame; I recognize no tribunal but His.” “Then, monsieur,” she replied, “let us endeavor to bring the judgments of men into harmony with the judgments of God.” (“Yes, indeed, your religion is you.”) The Abbe Troubert suddenly changed his tone. “Your nephew has been to Paris, I believe.” (“You found out about me there,” thought he; “you know now that I can crush you, you who dared to slight me, and you have come to capitulate.”) “Yes, monsieur; thank you for the interest you take in him. He returns to-night; the minister, who is very considerate of us, sent for him; he does not want Monsieur de Listomere to leave the service.” (“Jesuit, you can’t crush us,” thought she. “I understand your civility.”) A moment’s silence. “I did not think my nephew’s conduct in this affair quite the thing,” she added; “but naval men must be excused; they know nothing of law.” (“Come, we had better make peace,” thought she; “we sha’n’t gain anything by battling in this way.”) A slight smile wandered over the priests face and was lost in its wrinkles. “He has done us the service of getting a proper estimate on the value of those paintings,” he said, looking up at the pictures. “They will be a noble ornament to the chapel of the Virgin.” (“You shot a sarcasm at me,” thought he, “and there’s another in return; we are quits, madame.”) “If you intend to give them to Saint-Gatien, allow me to offer frames that will be more suitable and worthy of the place, and of the works themselves.” (“I wish I could force you to betray that you have taken Birotteau’s things for your own,” thought she.) “They do not belong to me,” said the priest, on his guard. “Here is the deed of relinquishment,” said Madame de Listomere; “it ends all discussion, and makes them over to Mademoiselle Gamard.” She laid the document on the table. (“See the confidence I place in you,” thought she.) “It is worthy of you, monsieur,” she added, “worthy of your noble character, to reconcile two Christians,--though at present I am not especially concerned for Monsieur Birotteau--” “He is living in your house,” said Troubert, interrupting her. “No, monsieur, he is no longer there.” (“That peerage and my nephew’s promotion force me to do base things,” thought she.) The priest remained impassible, but his calm exterior was an indication of violent emotion. Monsieur Bourbonne alone had fathomed the secret of that apparent tranquillity. The priest had triumphed! “Why did you take upon yourself to bring that relinquishment,” he asked, with a feeling analogous to that which impels a woman to fish for compliments. “I could not avoid a feeling of compassion. Birotteau, whose feeble nature must be well known to you, entreated me to see Madaemoiselle Gamard and to obtain as the price of his renunciation--”