“This dish,” said the arch-priest, “really gives out a most delicious odour. The last time I had one like it made for me, the dish split on account of the heat and the rum ran over the table-cloth. I was much vexed, and what annoyed me still more was to see the consternation on M. Tabarit’s face, for it happened when he was dining with me.” “That’s just it!” exclaimed the servant. “M. _l’archiprêtre_ had it served on a dish of fine porcelain. Of course, nothing could be too fine for Monsieur. But the finer the china is, the worse it stands fire. This dish here is of earthenware, and heat or cold makes no odds to it. When my master is a bishop he’ll have his omelettes soufflées served on a silver dish.” All of a sudden the flame flickered out in the pewter spoon and M. Guitrel stopped basting the omelette. Then he turned towards the woman and said with a stern glance: “Joséphine, you must never, in future, let me hear you talk in that fashion.” “But, my dear Guitrel,” said the curé of Saint-Exupère, “it is only you yourself who can take exception to such words, for to others it would seem only natural. You have been endowed with the precious gift of intelligence. Your knowledge is profound and, were you raised to a bishopric, it would only seem a fitting thing. Who knows whether this simple woman has not uttered a true prophecy? Has not your name been mentioned among those of the priests considered eligible for the episcopal chair of Tourcoing?” M. Guitrel pricked up his ears and gave a side-long glance, with one eye full on the other’s profile. He was, indeed, feeling very anxious, for his affairs were by no means in a promising state. At the nunciature he had been obliged to content himself with vague promises and he was beginning to be afraid of their Roman caution. It seemed to him that M. Lantaigne was in good odour at the Department of Religion, and, in short, his visit to Paris had only filled him with disquieting fancies. And now, if he was giving a lunch to the curé of Saint-Exupère, it was merely because the latter had the key to all the wire-pulling in M. Lantaigne’s party. M. Guitrel hoped, therefore, to worm out of the worthy curé all his opponent’s secrets. “And why,” continued the arch-priest, “should you not be a bishop one of these days, like M. Lantaigne?” In the silence that followed the utterance of this name, the musical clock struck out a shrill little tune of the olden days. It was the hour of noon. The hand with which Abbé Guitrel passed the earthenware dish to the arch-priest trembled a little. “There is,” said the latter, “a mellowness about this dish, a mellowness that is not insipid. Your servant is a first-rate cook.” “You were speaking of M. Lantaigne?” queried Abbé Guitrel.