Bourgeois pass in the road, and salute Mam'zelle Rose with respect.
"How do you do, Mam'zelle Rose? And the captain?"
"Always vigorous, thank you; you are very good."
The priest passes in the road, with a slow step, wagging his head. At the sight of Rose, he bows, smiles, closes his breviary, and stops.
"Ah! it is you, my dear child? And the captain?"
"Thank you. Father, things are going very nicely. The captain is busy in the cellar."
"So much the better, so much the better! I hope that he has planted some beautiful flowers, and that next year, on Corpus Christi day, we shall have again a superb street altar."
"You may be sure of it. Father."
"All my friendships to the captain, my child."
"And the same to you. Father."
And, as he goes away, his breviary again open:
"Au revoir! au revoir! All that a parish needs is parishioners like you."
And I go back, a little sad, a little discouraged, a little hateful, leaving this abominable Rose to enjoy her triumph, saluted by all, respected by all, fat, happy, hideously happy. Soon, I am sure, the priest will place her in a niche in his church, between two candles, with a nimbus of gold about her, like a saint.