The Vicar of Tours | Page 6

a friendship so
ingenuously sincere by saying, a few days before his death, as the vicar
sat by him reading the "Quotidienne" aloud: "This time you will
certainly get the apartment. I feel it is all over with me now."
Accordingly, it was found that the Abbe Chapeloud had left his library
and all his furniture to his friend Birotteau. The possession of these
things, so keenly desired, and the prospect of being taken to board by
Mademoiselle Gamard, certainly did allay the grief which Birotteau felt
at the death of his friend the canon. He might not have been willing to
resuscitate him; but he mourned him. For several days he was like
Gargantus, who, when his wife died in giving birth to Pantagruel, did
not know whether to rejoice at the birth of a son or grieve at having
buried his good Babette, and therefore cheated himself by rejoicing at
the death of his wife, and deploring the advent of Pantagruel.
The Abbe Birotteau spent the first days of his mourning in verifying the
books in HIS library, in making use of HIS furniture, in examining the
whole of his inheritance, saying in a tone which, unfortunately, was not
noted at the time, "Poor Chapeloud!" His joy and his grief so
completely absorbed him that he felt no pain when he found that the
office of canon, in which the late Chapeloud had hoped his friend
Birotteau might succeed him, was given to another. Mademoiselle
Gamard having cheerfully agreed to take the vicar to board, the latter
was thenceforth a participator in all those felicities of material comfort

of which the deceased canon had been wont to boast.
Incalculable they were! According to the Abbe Chapeloud none of the
priests who inhabited the city of Tours, not even the archbishop, had
ever been the object of such minute and delicate attentions as those
bestowed by Mademoiselle Gamard on her two lodgers. The first words
the canon said to his friend when they met for their walk on the Mail
referred usually to the succulent dinner he had just eaten; and it was a
very rare thing if during the walks of each week he did not say at least
fourteen times, "That excellent spinster certainly has a vocation for
serving ecclesiastics."
"Just think," the canon would say to Birotteau, "that for twelve
consecutive years nothing has ever been amiss,--linen in perfect order,
bands, albs, surplices; I find everything in its place, always in sufficient
quantity, and smelling of orris-root. My furniture is rubbed and kept so
bright that I don't know when I have seen any dust --did you ever see a
speck of it in my rooms? Then the firewood is so well selected. The
least little things are excellent. In fact, Mademoiselle Gamard keeps an
incessant watch over my wants. I can't remember having rung twice for
anything--no matter what--in ten years. That's what I call living! I never
have to look for a single thing, not even my slippers. Always a good
fire, always a good dinner. Once the bellows annoyed me, the nozzle
was choked up; but I only mentioned it once, and the next day
Mademoiselle gave me a very pretty pair, also those nice tongs you see
me mend the fire with."
For all answer Birotteau would say, "Smelling of orris-root!" That
"smelling of orris-root" always affected him. The canon's remarks
revealed ideal joys to the poor vicar, whose bands and albs were the
plague of his life, for he was totally devoid of method and often forgot
to order his dinner. Therefore, if he saw Mademoiselle Gamard at
Saint-Gatien while saying mass or taking round the plate, he never
failed to give her a kindly and benevolent look,--such a look as Saint
Teresa might have cast to heaven.
Though the comforts which all creatures desire, and for which he had
so often longed, thus fell to his share, the Abbe Birotteau, like the rest
of the world, found it difficult, even for a priest, to live without
something to hanker for. Consequently, for the last eighteen months he
had replaced his two satisfied passions by an ardent longing for a

canonry. The title of Canon had become to him very much what a
peerage is to a plebeian minister. The prospect of an appointment,
hopes of which had just been held out to him at Madame de Listomere's,
so completely turned his head that he did not observe until he reached
his own door that he had left his umbrella behind him. Perhaps, even
then, if the rain were not falling in torrents he might not have missed it,
so absorbed was he in the pleasure of going over and over in his mind
what had been said to him on the subject