an affectionate warmth of manner, whilst from time to time clucking his
tongue by way of encouraging his horse. And out of the corner of his eye
he inquisitively observed his nephew with the keenness of a scientist
bent on taking notes. In short kindly sentences he inquired about his
life, his habits, and the peaceful happiness he enjoyed at Les Artaud.
And at each satisfactory reply he murmured, as if to himself in a tone
of reassurance: 'Come, so much the better; that's just as it should be!'

He displayed peculiar anxiety about the young priest's state of health.
And Serge, greatly surprised, assured him that he was in splendid trim,
and had neither fits of giddiness or of nausea, nor headaches
whatsoever.

'Capital, capital,' reiterated his uncle Pascal. 'In spring, you see,
the blood is active. But you are sound enough. By-the-bye, I saw your
brother Octave at Marseilles last month. He is off to Paris, where he
will get a fine berth in a high-class business. The young beggar, a nice
life he leads.'

'What life?' innocently inquired the priest.

To avoid replying the doctor chirruped to his horse, and then went on:
'Briefly, everybody is well--your aunt Felicite, your uncle Rougon, and
the others. Still, that does not hinder our needing your prayers. You
are the saint of the family, my lad; I rely upon you to save the whole
lot.'

He laughed, but in such a friendly, good-humoured way that Serge himself
began to indulge in jocularity.