table, and the abbe was the Fenelon of the Gatinais. Both had had
a wide and varied education; the man of God was the only person in all
Nemours who was fully capable of understanding the atheist. To be able
to argue, men must first understand each other. What pleasure is there
in saying sharp words to one who can't feel them? The doctor and the
priest had far too much taste and had seen too much of good society
not to practice its precepts; they were thus well-fitted for the little
warfare so essential to conversation. They hated each other's opinions,
but they valued each other's character. If such conflicts and such
sympathies are not true elements of intimacy we must surely despair of
society, which, especially in France, requires some form of antagonism.
It is from the shock of characters, and not from the struggle of
opinions, that antipathies are generated.

The Abbe Chaperon became, therefore, the doctor's chief friend. This
excellent ecclesiastic, then sixty years of age, had been curate of
Nemours ever since the re-establishment of Catholic worship. Out of
attachment to his flock he had refused the vicariat of the diocese. If
those who were indifferent to religion thought well of him for so
doing, the faithful loved him the more for it. So, revered by his
sheep, respected by the inhabitants at large, the abbe did good without
inquiring into the religious opinions of those he benefited. His
parsonage, with scarcely furniture enough for the common needs of life,
was cold and shabby, like the lodging of a miser. Charity and avarice
manifest themselves in the same way; charity lays up a treasure in
heaven which avarice lays up on earth. The Abbe Chaperon argued with his
servant over expenses even more sharply than Gobseck with his--if indeed
that famous Jew kept a servant at all. The good priest often sold the
buckles off his shoes and his breeches to give their value to some poor
person who appealed to him at a moment when he had not a penny. When he
was seen coming out of church with the straps of his breeches tied
into the button-holes, devout women would redeem the buckles from the
clock-maker and jeweler of the town and return them to their pastor with
a lecture. He never bought himself any clothes or linen, and wore his
garments till they scarcely held together. His linen, thick with darns,
rubbed his skin like a hair shirt. Madame de Portenduere, and other good
souls, had an agreement with his housekeeper to