and the Jew who stabbed a host rendered by that very deed a sincere
homage to the truth of transubstantiation. These are fables, my boy,
to be left to the ignorant and, if I throw them in the face of that
horrible Mosaide, I do it less by the counsels of sound criticism
than by the impressive suggestions of resentment and anger."

"Oh! sir," I said, "you might have contented yourself with
reproaching him for the murder of the Portuguese he killed in the
frenzy of his jealousy; that certainly was a murder."

"What!" broke out my good master. "Mosaide has killed a Christian?
He is dangerous, my dear Tournebroche. You'll have to come to the
same conclusion that I have arrived at myself about this adventure.
It is quite certain that his niece is the mistress of M. d'Asterac,
whose room she doubtless had just left when I met her on the stairs.

"I am too religious a man not to be sorry that so amiable a person
comes of the Jewish race, who crucified Jesus Christ. Alas! do not
doubt, my dear boy, that villain Mordecai is the uncle of an Esther
who does not need to macerate six months in myrrh to become worthy
of the bed of a king. That old spagyric raven is not the man fit for
such a beauty, and I am rather inclined to take an interest in her
myself.

"Mosaide will have to hide her very secretly and carefully; should
she show herself once only at the promenade or the theatre, she
would have all the world at her feet on the following morning. Don't
you wish to see her, Tournebroche?"

I replied that I wished it very much. And then both of us drove