bbe
Troubert opened a window to get a better light on the folio volume he
was reading. Birotteau stood as if a thunderbolt had stricken him.
Mademoiselle Gamard made his ears hum when she enunciated in a voice
as clear as a cornet the following sentence:--

"Was it not agreed that if you left my house your furniture should
belong to me, to indemnify me for the difference in the price of board
paid by you and that paid by the late venerable Abbe Chapeloud? Now,
as the Abbe Poirel has just been appointed canon--"

Hearing the last words Birotteau made a feeble bow as if to take leave
of the old maid, and left the house precipitately. He was afraid if he
stayed longer that he should break down utterly, and give too great a
triumph to his implacable enemies. Walking like a dunken man he at
last reached Madame de Listomere's house, where he found in one of the
lower rooms his linen, his clothing, and all his papers packed in a
trunk. When he eyes fell on these few remnants of his possessions the
unhappy priest sat down and hid his face in his hands to conceal his
tears from the sight of others. The Abbe Poirel was canon! He,
Birotteau, had neither home, nor means, nor furniture!

Fortunately Mademoiselle Salomon happened to drive past the house, and
the porter, who saw and comprehended the despair of the poor abbe,
made a sign to the coachman. After exchanging a few words with
Mademoiselle Salomon the porter persuaded the vicar to let himself be
placed, half dead as he was, in the carriage of his faithful friend,
to whom he was unable to speak connectedly. Mademoiselle Salomon,
alarmed at the momentary derangement of a head that was always feeble,
took him back at once to the Alouette, believing that this beginning
of mental alienation was an effect produced by the sudden news of Abbe
Poirel's nomination. She knew nothing, of course, of the fatal
agreement made by the abbe with Mademoiselle Gamard, for the excellent
reason that he did not know of it himself; and because it is in the
nature of things that the comical is often mingled with the pathetic,
the singular replies of the poor abbe made her smile.

"Chapeloud was right," he said; "he is a monster!"

"Who?" she asked.

"Chapeloud. He has taken all."

"You mean Poirel?"

"No, Troubert."

At last they reached the Alouette, where the priest's friends gave him
such tender care that towards evening he grew calmer and was able to
give them an account of what had