k curtains where the canon slept, to have
all Chapeloud's comforts about him, would be, Birotteau felt, complete
happiness; he saw nothing beyond it. All the envy, all the ambition
which the things of this world give birth to in the hearts of other men
concentrated themselves for Birotteau in the deep and secret longing he
felt for an apartment like that which the Abbe Chapeloud had created for
himself. When his friend fell ill he went to him out of true affection;
but all the same, when he first heard of his illness, and when he sat
by his bed to keep him company, there arose in the depths of his
consciousness, in spite of himself, a crowd of thoughts the simple
formula of which was always, "If Chapeloud dies I can have this
apartment." And yet--Birotteau having an excellent heart, contracted
ideas, and a limited mind--he did not go so far as to think of means by
which to make his friend bequeath to him the library and the furniture.

The Abbe Chapeloud, an amiable, indulgent egoist, fathomed his friend's
desires--not a difficult thing to do--and forgave them; which may seem
less easy to a priest; but it must be remembered that the vicar, whose
friendship was faithful, did not fail to take a daily walk with his
friend along their usual path in the Mail de Tours, never once depriving
him of an instant of the time devoted for over twenty years to that
exercise. Birotteau, who regarded his secret wishes as crimes, would
have been capable, out of contrition, of the utmost devotion to his
friend. The latter paid his debt of gratitude for a friendship so
ingenuously sincere by saying, a few days before his death, as the
vicar sat by him reading the "Quotidienne" aloud: "This time you will
certainly get the apartment. I feel it is all over with me now."

Accordingly, it was found that the Abbe Chapeloud had left his library
and all his furniture to his friend Birotteau. The possession of these
things, so keenly desired, and the prospect of being taken to board by
Mademoiselle Gamard, certainly did allay the grief which Birotteau felt
at the death of his friend the canon. He might not have been willing
to resuscitate him; but he mourned him. For several days he was like
Gargantus, who, when his wife died in giving birth to Pantagruel, did
not know whether to rejoice at the birth of a son or grieve at having
buried his good Babette, and therefore cheated himself by rejoicing at
the death of his wife, and deploring the advent of