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a lackey behind, in a gala coach, and who have palaces, and
who roll in their carriages in the name of Jesus Christ who
went barefoot! You are a prelate,—revenues, palace, horses,
servants, good table, all the sensualities of life; you have this
like the rest, and like the rest, you enjoy it; it is well; but this
says either too much or too little; this does not enlighten
me upon the intrinsic and essential value of the man who
comes with the probable intention of bringing wisdom to
me. To whom do I speak? Who are you?’
The Bishop hung his head and replied, ‘Vermis sum—I
am a worm.’
‘A worm of the earth in a carriage?’ growled the conven-
t iona r y.
It was the conventionary’s turn to be arrogant, and the
Bishop’s to be humble.
The Bishop resumed mildly:—
‘So be it, sir. But explain to me how my carriage, which is
a few paces off behind the trees yonder, how my good table
and the moor-hens which I eat on Friday, how my twenty-
five thousand francs income, how my palace and my lackeys
prove that clemency is not a duty, and that ‘93 was not in-
exorable.’
The conventionary passed his hand across his brow, as
though to sweep away a cloud.
‘Before replying to you,’ he said, ‘I beseech you to pardon
me. I have just committed a wrong, sir. You are at my house,
you are my guest, I owe you courtesy. You discuss my ideas,
and it becomes me to confine myself to combating your ar-
guments. Your riches and your pleasures are advantages