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Updated: June 21, 2025
In Monsieur Coffin's time, it had always been a very merry ceremony, for the old priest loved a joke. He had even gained a reputation for the skilful way in which he could drain his glass, without leaving a single drop at the bottom of it; and the Artaud women pretended that every drop undrunk meant a year's less love for the newly married pair. But with Abbe Mouret they dare not joke so freely.
Thus, at Les Artaud, Abbe Mouret had once more experienced, each time he read the 'Imitation, the raptures of the cloistered life which he had longed for at one time so ardently. As yet he had not had to fight any battle. From the moment that he knelt down, he became perfect, absolutely oblivious of the flesh, unresisting, undisturbed, as if overpowered by the Divine grace.
'So you were coming to bury me, were you? growled the old man harshly. 'I don't want anybody. I bled myself. He stopped short as he caught sight of the priest, and assumed so threatening an expression that the doctor hastened to intervene. 'This is my nephew, he said; 'the new Cure of Les Artaud a good fellow, too.
I cannot imagine how your feet can stand those peasant shoes, you're such a little, tender man and look as if you had been preciously spoilt! Ah, the bishop must have known a deal about you, to go and give you the poorest living in the department. 'But it was I who chose Les Artaud, said the priest, breaking into another smile. 'You are very bad-tempered this morning, La Teuse.
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