And nothing could get the better of him, nothing could bend his severity. One hope only was left to Cesaire. Old Amable was afraid of the cure through apprehension of the death which he felt drawing nigh. He had not much fear of the good God nor of the Devil nor of Hell nor of Purgatory, of which he had no conception, but he dreaded the priest, who represented to him burial, as one might fear the doctors through horror of diseases. For the last eight days Celeste, who knew this weakness of the old man, had been urging Cesaire to go and find the cure; but Cesaire always hesitated, because he had not much liking for the black robe, which represented to him hands always stretched out for collections for blessed bread. However, he made up his mind, and he proceeded towards the presbytery, thinking in what manner he would speak about his case. The Abbe Raffin, a lively little priest, thin and never shaved, was awaiting his dinner-hour while warming his feet at his kitchen-fire. As soon as he saw the peasant entering, he asked, merely turning round his head: "Well, Cesaire, what do you want?" "I'd like to have a talk with you, M. le Cure." The man remained standing, intimidated, holding his cap in one hand and his whip in the other. "Well, talk." Cesaire looked at the housekeeper, an old woman who dragged her feet while putting on the cover for her master's dinner at the corner of the table in front of the window. He stammered: "'Tis--'tis a sort of confession." Thereupon, the Abbe Raffin carefully surveyed his peasant. He saw his confused countenance, his air of constraint, his wandering eyes, and he gave orders to the housekeeper in these words: "Marie, go away for five minutes to your room, while I talk to Cesaire." The servant cast on the man an angry glance, and went away grumbling. The clergyman went on: "Come, now, spin out your yarn." The young fellow still hesitated, looked down at his wooden shoes, moved about his cap, then, all of a sudden, he made up his mind: "Here it is: I want to marry Celeste Levesque." "Well, my boy, what's there to prevent you?" "The father won't have it." "Your father?" "Yes, my father." "What does your father say?" "He says she has a child." "She's not the first to whom that happened, since our Mother Eve." "A child by Victor Lecoq, Anthione Loisel's servant-man." "Ha! ha! So he won't have it?" "He won't have it." "What! not at all?" "No, no more than an ass that won't budge an inch, saving your presence." "What do you say to him yourself in order to make him decide?" "I say to him that she's a good girl, and strong too, and thrifty also." "And this does not make him settle it. So you want me to speak to him?" "Exactly. You speak to him." "And what am I to tell your father?" "Why, what you tell people in your sermons to make them give you sous."