they brought them back to him. He never bought himself linen or clothes, and wore his garments until they were unwearable. His linen, thick with darns, marked his skin like a haircloth. Madame de Portenduère or other simple souls then agreed with the housekeeper to replace his linen or old clothes by new ones during his sleep, and the curé did not always remark the change at once. At home he ate off pewter and with knives and forks of wrought iron. When he received his officiating priests and curates on days of solemnity, which is a tax upon the curés of the district, he used to borrow silver and table linen from his friend the atheist.
“My silver is his salvation!” the doctor would then say.
These good actions, which were sooner or later discovered and always accompanied by spiritual encouragement, were accomplished with sublime naivete. This life was all the more meritorious, in that the Abbé Chaperon possessed erudition as extensive as it was varied, and rare attainments. With him, shrewdness and grace, simplicity’s inseparable companions, enhanced a delivery worthy of a prelate. His manners, his character and his habits imparted that exquisite savor to his conversation, which, with intelligence, is both witty and sincere. Disposed to humor, he never acted the priest in a drawing-room. Until Doctor Minoret’s arrival, the simple soul left his light under a bushel without any regret; but maybe he was very
