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The Abbe Chapeloud was dead; and Birotteau had stepped into his place. The late Abbe Chapeloud, in life a canon of Saint-Gatien, had been an intimate friend of the Abbe Birotteau. Every time that the latter paid a visit to the canon he had constantly admired the apartment, the furniture and the library. Out of this admiration grew the desire to possess these beautiful things.
The hands of that man were in Paris, his elbows in the Cloister of Saint-Gatien. "He!" said the victim to himself, "He to prevent the Baron de Listomere from becoming peer of France! and, perhaps, 'by the help of the archbishop we may be able to stop the matter here'!" In presence of such great interests Birotteau felt he was a mere worm; he judged himself harshly.
He therefore crossed, as quickly as his corpulence would allow, the deserted little square called "The Cloister," which lies directly behind the chancel of the cathedral of Saint-Gatien at Tours. The Abbe Birotteau, a short little man, apoplectic in constitution and about sixty years old, had already gone through several attacks of gout.
That idea, inspired equally by fear and kindness, became so strong that he left the garden and went to the church, thinking no longer of his canonry, so absorbed was he by the disheartening tyranny of the old maid. Luckily for him he happened to find much to do at Saint-Gatien, several funerals, a marriage, and two baptisms. Thus employed he forgot his griefs.
The hands of that man were in Paris, his elbows in the Cloister of Saint-Gatien. "He!" said the victim to himself, "He to prevent the Baron de Listomere from becoming peer of France! and, perhaps, 'by the help of the archbishop we may be able to stop the matter here'!" In presence of such great interests Birotteau felt he was a mere worm; he judged himself harshly.
Just as a tree needs daily the same sustenance, and must always send its roots into the same soil, so Birotteau needed to trot about Saint-Gatien, and amble along the Mail where he took his daily walk, and saunter through the streets, and visit the three salons where, night after night, he played his whist or his backgammon. "Ah!
When the tall canon marched with solemn step through the naves and cloisters of Saint-Gatien, his head bowed, his eye stern, respect followed him; that bent face was in harmony with the yellowing arches of the cathedral; the folds of his cassock fell in monumental lines that were worthy of statuary. The good vicar, on the contrary, perambulated about with no gravity at all.
"He has done us the service of getting a proper estimate on the value of those paintings," he said, looking up at the pictures. "They will be a noble ornament to the chapel of the Virgin." "If you intend to give them to Saint-Gatien, allow me to offer frames that will be more suitable and worthy of the place, and of the works themselves." "They do not belong to me," said the priest, on his guard.
Monsieur Birotteau listened with acceptance to Mademoiselle Gamard when she told him that a man who ate an egg every morning would die in a year, and that facts proved it; that a roll of light bread eaten without drinking for several days together would cure sciatica; that all the workmen who assisted in pulling down the Abbey Saint-Martin had died in six months; that a certain prefect, under orders from Bonaparte, had done his best to damage the towers of Saint-Gatien, with a hundred other absurd tales.
I did not think of it!" replied Monsieur de Bourbonne, gazing at the priest with a sort of pity. All Tours was soon aware that Madame la Baronne de Listomere, widow of a lieutenant-general, had invited the Abbe Birotteau, vicar of Saint-Gatien, to stay at her house.
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