"How dare you--such as you--mention my name? Wretch!"

She flung the last word at him, and the priest took it up. "Ay,
wretch! Wretched man indeed!" he repeated slowly, stretching
out his long thin hand and laying it like the claw of some bird
of prey on the tradesman's shoulder, which flinched, I saw, under
the touch. "How dare you--such as you--meddle with matters of
the nobility? Matters that do not concern you? Trouble! I see
trouble hanging over this house, Mirepoix! Much trouble!"

The miserable fellow trembled visibly under the covert threat.
His face grew pale. His lips quivered. He seemed fascinated by
the priest's gaze. "I am a faithful son of the church," he
muttered; but his voice shook so that the words were scarcely
audible. "I am known to be such! None better known in Paris, M.
le Coadjuteur."

"Men are known by their works!" the priest retorted. "Now,
now," he continued, abruptly raising his voice, and lifting his
hand in a kind of exaltation, real or feigned, "is the appointed
time! And now is the day of salvation! and woe, Mirepoix, woe!
woe! to the backslider, and to him that putteth his hand to the
plough and looketh back to-night!"

The layman cowered and shrank before his fierce denunciation;
while Madame de Pavannes gazed from one to the other as if her
dislike for the priest were so great that seeing the two thus
quarrelling, she almost forgave Mirepoix his offence. "Mirepoix
said he could explain," she murmured irresolutely.