He wrote quantities of these letters, sometimes twenty, thirty, and fifty a day. He wrote them at the Café Américain, at Bignon’s, at Tortoni’s, at the Maison-Dorée, at the Café Riche, at the Helder, at the Café Anglais, at the Napolitain, everywhere. He addressed them to every official in the Republic, from magistrates to ministers. And he was happy, thoroughly happy.
One morning, as he was leaving his rooms to go to the State Council it began to rain. He was inclined to take a cab, but did not, finally deciding that he would walk.
The shower became very heavy, soaking the pavements, and inundating the streets. M. Marin was compelled to seek shelter in a doorway. An old priest had already taken refuge there, an old, white-haired priest. Before he had been appointed State Councillor, M. Marin did not care much for the clergy. But now, ever since a Cardinal had consulted him regarding some delicate matter, he treated the clergy with consideration. The downpour was so heavy that the two men were forced to take refuge in the concierge’s box, to avoid getting splashed. M. Marin, who was constantly impelled to brag about himself, declared:
“A very bad day, monsieur l’abbé.”
The old priest bowed:
“Ah! yes, monsieur, and it is all the more disagreeable when one is in Paris for a few days only.”
“Ah! so you live in the provinces?”
“Yes, monsieur, I am only passing through Paris.”
“Indeed, it is most annoying to have rain when one is spending a day or so in the capital. We officials, who live here all the year round, do not mind it.”
The abbé made no reply and looked into the street, where the rain was beginning to stop a little. And suddenly clutching his gown in both hands, he resolved to brave the elements.
M. Marin, seeing him depart, shouted:
“You will get drenched, monsieur l’abbé. Wait a few minutes more, the rain will stop.”
The old man wavered and then said:
“Well, I’m in a great hurry. I have a very urgent engagement.”
M. Marin appeared very much concerned.
“But you will certainly be wet through. May I ask where you are going?”
The priest seemed to hesitate a moment, but then he said:
“I am going in the direction of the Palais-Royal.”
“Well then, if you will allow me, monsieur l’abbé, I will offer you the shelter of my umbrella. I am going to the State Council. I am a State Councillor.”
The old priest raised his eyes, looked at the speaker and exclaimed:
“I am greatly obliged to you, monsieur, and accept your offer with pleasure.”
Then M. Marin took him by the arm, and they set out. He led him along, watching over him and giving advice:
“Be careful of this gutter, monsieur l’abbé. Look out for the carriage wheels, they throw mud all over one. Mind the umbrellas! Nothing is more of a danger to the eyes than the sharp ends of an umbrella! The women, especially, are so careless; they never mind anything and thrust their sunshades and their umbrellas right under people’s noses. And they never go out of anyone’s way, either. They seem to think that they own the whole city. I think myself that their education has been sadly neglected.”
And M. Marin chuckled gleefully.
The priest made no reply. He picked his way carefully along the streets, slightly bent, choosing with discrimination the dry spots on the pavement so as not to bespatter his shoes and gown.
M. Marin went on:
“I suppose you are in Paris for a little rest?”
The old man retorted:
“No, I have come on business.”
“Oh! anything important? Might I inquire what it is? If I can be of service to you, I would only be too glad.”
The abbé looked embarrassed. He mumbled:
“Oh! it’s a little personal matter. A little difficulty with—with my bishop. It could hardly interest you. It is something about the adjustment—the adjustment of some ecclesiastical matter.”
M. Marin became eager.
“Why, these matters are always referred to the State Council. In this case I wish you would make use of me.”
“Yes, it is to the State Council I am going. You are most kind. I have an appointment with M. Lerepère and M. Savon, and maybe I will interview M. Petitpas also.”
M. Marin came to a stop.
“Why, they are my friends, monsieur l’abbé, my dearest friends, fine fellows, all of them. I shall warmly recommend you to them. Rely on me.”
The priest thanked him and protested his undying gratitude.
M. Marin was delighted.
“Oh! you can thank your stars, monsieur l’abbé, that you met me. You will see how smoothly everything will go now.”
They finally reached the State Council. M. Marin conducted the priest to his office, installed him before the open fire and then sat down at his desk and wrote:
“My dear colleague, allow me to recommend most heartily to you a very worthy priest, M. l’abbé …”
He paused and inquired: “Your name, please?”
“Abbé Ceinture.”
M. Marin wrote:
“M. l’abbé Ceinture, who needs your intercession in a little matter which he will lay before you.
“I am glad of this opportunity which allows me, my dear colleague …”
And he concluded with the customary compliments.
After he had written the three letters, he handed them to his protégé who departed amid renewed protestations of gratitude.
M. Marin attended to his official duties, went home, spent a quiet day and slept peacefully that night. The next morning he woke up happy, dressed and sat down to read the papers.
The first one he opened was a radical organ. He read:
“Our Clergy and our Officials.
“There seems to be no end to the misdeeds of the clergy. A certain priest named Ceinture, convicted of having conspired against the existing government, accused of infamous acts, that we will not even mention, suspected besides of being a former Jesuit transformed into an ordinary priest, revoked by his bishop for reasons which are said to be unprintable, and summoned to Paris to explain his conduct, has found a warm partisan in the State Councillor, Marin, who did not hesitate to give this cassocked rascal the most
