"Oh! many things."
"You may as well define what things. I mean to know."
"There was the pupil's youth, the pupil's manhood—his avarice, his ingratitude, his implacability, his inconstancy. Such a bad pupil, monsieur!—so thankless, cold-hearted, unchivalrous, unforgiving!"
"Et puis?" said he, taking a cigar.
"Et puis," I pursued, "he underwent calamities which one did not pity—bore them in a spirit one did not admire—endured wrongs for which one felt no sympathy; finally, took the unchristian revenge of heaping coals of fire on his adversary's head."
"You have not told me all," said he.
"Nearly all, I think: I have indicated the heads of Père Silas's chapters."
"You have forgotten one—that which touched on the pupil's lack of affection—on his hard, cold, monkish heart."
"True; I remember now. Père Silas did say that his vocation was almost that of a priest—that his life was considered consecrated."
"By what bonds or duties?"
"By the ties of the past and the charities of the present."
