--I have not exactly understood, replied Marcel, trying to keep his
countenance.

--You are very hard of understanding. I will tell you another story and I
will be clearer. I see what you want--the dots on the i's.

Marcel rose up alarmed.

--No, no, cried Durand. Don't get up. Don't go away. Since you are here, we
must talk a little. Stay, it will not be long. It is the story of a cousin
of mine, or rather a cousin of my wife. Another of your confraternity. He
was curate or deacon, or canon, in fact I don't know what rank in your
regiment. At any rate, a bitter hypocrite; you will see. Under pretence of
relationship, he used to pay us frequent visits. You can think if that
suited me, who already adored the cassock! Besides, on principle, I
detested cousins. It is the sore of households, gentlemen; you must avoid
it like the plague. Monsieur le Curé, if you have a pretty servant, beware
of cousins. I only say that. My wife used to say to me: "What has this poor
boy done to you that you receive him so badly? Are you jealous of him? Ah!
I know very well, it is because he belongs to my family, and you cannot
endure my poor relations." So to have peace I tolerated my cousin. He,
convinced that little presents maintain friendship, used to make us little
presents. There were tickets for sacred concerts, lotteries for the benefit
of the little Chinese, rosaries blessed by the pope, pebbles from
Jerusalem. Nothing wrong so far. My wife availed herself of the concert
tickets; the rosaries were put into a drawer, and I threw the pebbles into
the garden. But soon his gifts changed their character. He brought us some
hairs of St. Pancratius, a tooth of St. Alacoque, a rag which had wiped
something or other off St. Anastasius or St. Cunegunda. My wife clasped her
hands, was in ecstasy and transported with joy, and I went and brought up