wishes as crimes, would have been capable, out of contrition, of the
utmost devotion to his friend. The latter paid his debt of gratitude

for a friendship so ingenuously sincere by saying, a few days before
his death, as the vicar sat by him reading the "Quotidienne" aloud:

"This time you will certainly get the apartment. I feel it is all over
with me now."

Accordingly, it was found that the Abbe Chapeloud had left his library
and all his furniture to his friend Birotteau. The possession of these

things, so keenly desired, and the prospect of being taken to board by
Mademoiselle Gamard, certainly did allay the grief which Birotteau

felt at the death of his friend the canon. He might not have been
willing to resuscitate him; but he mourned him. For several days he

was like Gargantus, who, when his wife died in giving birth to
Pantagruel, did not know whether to rejoice at the birth of a son or

grieve at having buried his good Babette, and therefore cheated
himself by rejoicing at the death of his wife, and deploring the

advent of Pantagruel.
The Abbe Birotteau spent the first days of his mourning in verifying

the books in HIS library, in making use of HIS furniture, in examining
the whole of his inheritance, saying in a tone which, unfortunately,

was not noted at the time, "Poor Chapeloud!" His joy and his grief so
completely absorbed him that he felt no pain when he found that the

office of canon, in which the late Chapeloud had hoped his friend
Birotteau might succeed him, was given to another. Mademoiselle Gamard

having cheerfully agreed to take the vicar to board, the latter was
thenceforth a participator in all those felicities of material comfort

of which the deceased canon had been wont to boast.
Incalculable they were! According to the Abbe Chapeloud none of the

priests who inhabited the city of Tours, not even the archbishop, had
ever been the object of such minute and delicate attentions as those

bestowed by Mademoiselle Gamard on her two lodgers. The first words
the canon said to his friend when they met for their walk on the Mail

referred usually to the succulent dinner he had just eaten; and it was
a very rare thing if during the walks of each week he did not say at

least fourteen times, "That excellent spinster certainly has a
vocation for serving ecclesiastics."

"Just think," the canon would say to Birotteau, "that for twelve
consecutive years nothing has ever been amiss,--linen in perfect

order, bands, albs, surplices; I find everything in its place, always
in sufficient quantity, and smelling of orris-root. My furniture is

rubbed and kept so bright that I don't know when I have seen any dust
--did you ever see a speck of it in my rooms? Then the firewood is so

well selected. The least little things are excellent. In fact,
Mademoiselle Gamard keeps an incessant watch over my wants. I can't

remember having rung twice for anything--no matter what--in ten years.
That's what I call living! I never have to look for a single thing,

not even my slippers. Always a good fire, always a good dinner. Once
the bellows annoyed me, the nozzle was choked up; but I only mentioned

it once, and the next day Mademoiselle gave me a very pretty pair,
also those nice tongs you see me mend the fire with."

For all answer Birotteau would say, "Smelling of orris-root!" That
"smelling of orris-root" always affected him. The canon's remarks

revealed ideal joys to the poor vicar, whose bands and albs were the
plague of his life, for he was totallydevoid of method and often

forgot to order his dinner. Therefore, if he saw Mademoiselle Gamard
at Saint-Gatien while saying mass or taking round the plate, he never

failed to give her a kindly and benevolent look,--such a look as Saint
Teresa might have cast to heaven.

Though the comforts which all creatures desire, and for which he had
so often longed, thus fell to his share, the Abbe Birotteau, like the

rest of the world, found it difficult, even for a priest, to live
without something to hanker for. Consequently, for the last eighteen

months he had replaced his two satisfied passions by an ardent longing
for a canonry. The title of Canon had become to him very much what a

peerage is to a plebeianminister. The prospect of an appointment,
hopes of which had just been held out to him at Madame de Listomere's,

so completely turned his head that he did not observe until he reached
his own door that he had left his umbrella behind him. Perhaps, even

then, if the rain were not falling in torrents he might not have
missed it, so absorbed was he in the pleasure of going over and over

in his mind what had been said to him on the subject of his promotion
by the company at Madame de Listomere's,--an old lady with whom he

spent every Wednesday evening.
The vicar rang loudly, as if to let the servant know she was not to

keep him waiting. Then he stood close to the door to avoid, if he
could, getting showered; but the drip from the roof fell precisely on

the toes of his shoes, and the wind blew gusts of rain into his face
that were much like a shower-bath. Having calculated the time necesary

for the woman to leave the kitchen and pull the string of the outer
door, he rang again, this time in a manner that resulted in a very

significant peal of the bell.
"They can't be out," he said to himself, not hearing any movement on

the premises.
Again he rang, producing a sound that echoed sharply through the house

and was taken up and repeated by all the echoes of the cathedral, so
that no one could avoid waking up at the remonstrating racket.

Accordingly, in a few moments, he heard, not without some pleasure in
his wrath, the wooden shoes of the servant-woman clacking along the

paved path which led to the outer door. But even then the discomforts
of the gouty old gentleman were not so quickly over as he hoped.

Instead of pulling the string, Marianne was obliged to turn the lock
of the door with its heavy key, and pull back all the bolts.

"Why did you let me ring three times in such weather?" said the vicar.
"But, monsieur, don't you see the door was locked? We have all been in

bed ever so long; it struck a quarter to eleven some time ago.
Mademoiselle must have thought you were in."

"You saw me go out, yourself. Besides, Mademoiselle knows very well I
always go to Madame de Listomere's on Wednesday evening."

"I only did as Mademoiselle told me, monsieur."
These words struck the vicar a blow, which he felt the more because

his late revery had made him completely happy. He said nothing and
followed Marianne towards the kitchen to get his candlestick, which he

supposed had been left there as usual. But instead of entering the
kitchen Marianne went on to his own apartments, and there the vicar

beheld his candlestick on a table close to the door of the red salon,
in a sort of antechamber formed by the landing of the staircase, which

the late canon had inclosed with a glass partition. Mute with
amazement, he entered his bedroom hastily, found no fire, and called

to Marianne, who had not had time to get downstairs.
"You have not lighted the fire!" he said.

"Beg pardon, Monsieur l'abbe, I did," she said; "it must have gone
out."

Birotteau looked again at the hearth, and felt convinced that the fire
had been out since morning.

"I must dry my feet," he said. "Make the fire."
Marianne obeyed with the haste of a person who wants to get back to

her night's rest. While looking about him for his slippers, which were
not in the middle of his bedsidecarpet as usual, the abbe took mental

notes of the state of Marianne's dress, which convinced him that she
had not got out of bed to open the door as she said she had. He then

recollected that for the last two weeks he had been deprived of
various little attentions which for eighteen months had made life

sweet to him. Now, as the nature of narrow minds induces them to study
trifles, Birotteau plunged suddenly into deep meditation on these four

circumstances, imperceptible in their meaning to others, but to him
indicative of four catastrophes. The total loss of his happiness was

evidently foreshadowed in the neglect to place his slipppers, in
Marianne's falsehood about the fire, in the unusualremoval of his

candlestick to the table of the antechamber, and in the evident
intention to keep him waiting in the rain.

When the fire was burning on the hearth, and the lamp was lighted, and
Marianne had departed without saying, as usual, "Does Monsieur want

anything more?" the Abbe Birotteau let himself fall gently into the
wide and handsome easy-chair of his late friend; but there was

something mournful in the movement with which he dropped upon it. The
good soul was crushed by a presentiment of coming calamity. His eyes