But he was thinking instead of how the angel and the devil may live side by side in a man, and neither be entirely driven out—and the angel conquer in great times and seasons.
He beckoned to Parpon to come over, and the dwarf trotted with a sidelong motion to the chancel steps. Every face in the congregation was eager, and some were mystified, even anxious. They all knew the singular power of the little man—his knowledge, his deep wit, his judgment, his occasional fierceness, his infrequent malice; but he was kind to children and the sick, and the Curé and the Avocat and their little coterie respected him. Once everybody had worshipped him: that was when he had sung in the Mass, the day of the funeral of the wife of Farette the miller, for whom he worked. It had been rumoured that in his hut by the Rock of Red Pigeons, up at Dalgrothe Mountain, a voice of most wonderful power and sweetness had been heard singing; but this was only rumour. Yet when the body of the miller’s wife lay in the church, he had sung so that men and women wept and held each other’s hands for joy. He had never sung since, however; his voice of silver was locked away in the cabinet of secret purposes which every man has somewhere in his own soul.
"What will you say to the Bishop, Parpon?" asked the Curé.
The congregation stirred in their seats, for they saw that the Curé intended Parpon to go.
Parpon went up two steps of the chancel quietly and caught the arm of the Curé, drawing him down to whisper in his ear.
A flush and then a peculiar soft light passed over the Curé’s face, and he raised his hand over Parpon’s head
