The Bishop hung his head and replied, “ Vermis sum —I am a worm.”
“A worm of the earth in a carriage?” growled the conventionary.
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 moorhens 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 inexorable.”
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 arguments. Your riches and your pleasures are advantages which I hold over you in the debate; but good taste dictates that I shall not make use of them. I promise you to make no use of them in the future.”
“I thank you,” said the Bishop.
G⸺ resumed.
“Let us return to the explanation which you have asked of me. Where were we? What were you saying to me? That ’93 was inexorable?”