Down there they take from the poor people whatever there is, and nothing is left to pay the bills of a heretic médecin. The priests thought that was fair, since the médecin gave them nothing for their embroideries and their holy smells!
"Here at least one is not molested,—if one were permitted to enjoy one's freedom! All my life I have wanted to sit by my fire and read, one after the other, every book discouraged by Rome. . . . But always when I get out my pipe and take down Renan or Voltaire there is a call: little Johnny has a fit, come quick; Madame Chose is having a baby,—Cré Mâtin: Madame who has had already twelve! If the baby lives they thank God; if he dies they blame me. And that's life. . . .
"All one can do in this low world, my son, is work, without asking why. We are like clocks that Nature has wound up to keep time for her, and it's enough that Nature knows what we are registering. The people who are always trying to read the hour on their own dials keep damn poor time. Witness my excellent sister. Denise burns expensive candles for her drôle of a husband, that rusé Mareuil who marched his socialists up the hill to give him a fine showing, then, unlike the King of France, stayed on the hill and let them march down by themselves when they had served his ambition, and got himself assassinated for his treachery. And his devout widow, after fumbling her beads in the parlor, goes into the pantry to count the gingersnaps for fear the
