t his access to the salons of the best
society. Nevertheless, during Chapeloud's lifetime Troubert treated
him invariably with great respect, and showed him on all occasions the
utmost deference. This constant submission did not, however, change
the opinion of the late canon, who said to Birotteau during the last
walk they took together: "Distrust that lean stick of a Troubert,
--Sixtus the Fifth reduced to the limits of a bishopric!"

Such was the friend, the abiding guest of Mademoiselle Gamard, who now
came, the morning after the old maid had, as it were, declared war
against the poor vicar, to pay his brother a visit and show him marks
of friendship.

"You must excuse Marianne," said the canon, as the woman entered. "I
suppose she went first to my rooms. They are very damp, and I coughed
all night. You are most healthily situated here," he added, looking up
at the cornice.

"Yes; I am lodged like a canon," replied Birotteau.

"And I like a vicar," said the other, humbly.

"But you will soon be settled in the archbishop's palace," said the
kindly vicar, who wanted everybody to be happy.

"Yes, or in the cemetery, but God's will be done!" and Troubert raised
his eyes to heaven resignedly. "I came," he said, "to ask you to lend
me the 'Register of Bishops.' You are the only man in Tours I know who
has a copy."

"Take it out of my library," replied Birotteau, reminded by the
canon's words of the greatest happiness of his life.

The canon passed into the library and stayed there while the vicar
dressed. Presently the breakfast bell rang, and the gouty vicar
reflected that if it had not been for Troubert's visit he would have
had no fire to dress by. "He's a kind man," thought he.

The two priests went downstairs together, each armed with a huge folio
which they laid on one of the side tables in the dining-room.

"What's all that?" asked Mademoiselle Gamard, in a sharp voice,
addressing Birotteau. "I hope you are not going to litter up my
dining-room with your old books!"

"They are books I wanted," replied the Abbe Troubert. "Monsieur
Birotteau has been kind enough to lend them to me."

"I might have guessed it," she said, with a contemptuous smile.
"Monsieur Birotteau doesn't often read books of that size."

"How are you, mademoiselle?" said the vicar, in a mellifluous voice.

"Not very well," she replied, shortly. "You woke me up last night out
of my first sleep, and I was wakeful for the rest of the n