day, it would be a thing to laugh at; but at this hour, alone, with no
one to see--it is surely a thing to marvel at!"

Bianchon did not wish to seem as though he were spying the head surgeon
of the Hotel-Dieu; he went away. As it happened, Desplein asked him to
dine with him that day, not at his own house, but at a restaurant. At
dessert Bianchon skilfully contrived to talk of the mass, speaking of it
as mummery and a farce.

"A farce," said Desplein, "which has cost Christendom more blood than
all Napoleon's battles and all Broussais' leeches. The mass is a papal
invention, not older than the sixth century, and based on the _Hoc est
corpus_. What floods of blood were shed to establish the Fete-Dieu, the
Festival of Corpus Christi--the institution by which Rome established
her triumph in the question of the Real Presence, a schism which rent
the Church during three centuries! The wars of the Count of Toulouse
against the Albigenses were the tail end of that dispute. The Vaudois
and the Albigenses refused to recognize this innovation."

In short, Desplein was delighted to disport himself in his most
atheistical vein; a flow of Voltairean satire, or, to be accurate, a
vile imitation of the _Citateur_.

"Hallo! where is my worshiper of this morning?" said Bianchon to
himself.

He said nothing; he began to doubt whether he had really seen his chief
at Saint-Sulpice. Desplein would not have troubled himself to tell
Bianchon a lie, they knew each other too well; they had already
exchanged thoughts on quite equally serious subjects, and discussed