Birotteau, on the other hand, was all expansiveness, all openness; he liked tidbits, and could be amused by a trifle with the artlessness of a man free from gall and malice. The Abbé Troubert at first sight inspired an involuntary feeling of dread, while the Vicar made everyone who looked at him smile kindly. When the tall Canon stalked solemnly along the cloisters and aisles of Saint-Gatien, his brow bent, his eye stern, he commanded respect; his bowed figure harmonized with the yellow vaulting of the cathedral; there was something monumental in the folds of his gown, and worthy of the sculptor’s art. But the good little Abbé moved without dignity, trotted and pattered, looking as if he rolled along.
And yet the two men had one point of resemblance. While Troubert’s ambitious looks, by making the world afraid of him, had perhaps contributed to condemn him to the modest dignity of a mere Canon, Birotteau’s character and appearance seemed to stamp him forever as no more than a vicaire of the Cathedral. The Abbé Troubert meanwhile, at the age of fifty, by the moderation of his conduct, by the apparently total absence of any ambition in his aims, and by his saintly life, had dispelled the fears his superiors had conceived of his supposed cleverness and his alarming exterior. Indeed, for a year past, his health had been seriously impaired, so that his early promotion to the dignity of Vicar-General to the Archbishop seemed probable. His rivals even hoped for his appointment, to enable them the more effectually to prepare for their own, during the short span of life that might yet be granted him by a malady that had become chronic. Birotteau’s triple chin, far from suggesting the same hopes, displayed to the candidates who were struggling for the canonry all the symptoms of vigorous health, and his gout seemed to them the proverbial assurance of a long life.
The Abbé Chapeloud, a man of great good sense, whose amiability had secured him the friendship of persons in good society and of the various heads of the diocese, had always opposed the elevation of the Abbé Troubert, secretly and with much address; he had even hindered his admission to any of the salons where the best set in Tours were wont to meet, though during his lifetime Troubert always treated him with great respect, and on all occasions showed him the utmost deference. This persistent submissiveness had not availed to change the deceased Canon’s opinion; during his last walk with Birotteau, he had said to him once more:
“Do not trust that dry pole Troubert! He is Sixtus V reduced to the scale of a bishopric.”
This was Mademoiselle Gamard’s friend and messmate, who, the very day after that on which she had, so to speak, declared war with poor Birotteau, had come to call on him with every mark of friendliness.
“You must excuse Marianne,” said Troubert as she came in. “I fancy she did my room first. My place is very damp, and I coughed a great deal during the night.—You are very healthily situated here,” he added, looking up at the mouldings.
“Oh, I am lodged like a Canon!” replied Birotteau with a emile.
“And I like a curate,” replied the humble priest.
“Yes, but before long you will be lodged in the Archbishop’s Palace,” said the good Abbé, who only wanted that everybody should be happy.
“Oh! or in the graveyard. God’s will be done!” and Troubert looked up to heaven with a resigned air. “I came,” he went on, “to beg you to lend me the General Clergy List. No one but you has the book at Tours.”
“Take it out of the bookcase,” replied Birotteau, reminded by the Canon’s last words of all the joys of his life.
The tall priest went into the library, and remained there all the time the Abbé was dressing. Presently the breakfast-bell rang, and Birotteau, reflecting that but for Troubert’s visit he would have had no fire to get up by, said to himself, “He is a good man!”
The two priests went down together, each armed with an enormous folio, which they laid on one of the consoles in the dining-room.
“What in the world is that?” asked Mademoiselle Gamard in sharp tones, addressing Birotteau. “You are not going to lumber up my dining-room with old books, I hope!”
“They are some books I wanted,” said the Abbé Troubert. “Monsieur is kind enough to lend them to me.”
“I might have guessed that,” said she with a scornful smile. “Monsieur Birotteau does not often study such big books.”
“And how are you, mademoiselle?” asked the Abbé in a piping voice.
“Why, not at all well,” she replied curtly. “You were the cause of my being roused from my first sleep, and I felt the effects all night.” And as she seated herself. Mademoiselle Gamard added, “Gentlemen, the milk will get cold.”
Astounded at being so sourly received by his hostess when he expected her to apologize, but frightened, as timid people
