A fine rain was falling: Charles, whose chest was bare, at last began to shiver; he went in and sat down in the kitchen.
At six o’clock a noise like a clatter of old iron was heard on the Place; it was the Hirondelle coming in, and he remained with his forehead against the windowpane, watching all the passengers get out, one after the other. Félicité put down a mattress for him in the drawing-room. He threw himself upon it and fell asleep.
Although a philosopher, Monsieur Homais respected the dead. So bearing no grudge to poor Charles, he came back again in the evening to sit up with the body; bringing with him three volumes and a pocketbook for taking notes.
Monsieur Bournisien was there, and two large candles were burning at the head of the bed, that had been taken out of the alcove. The druggist, on whom the silence weighed, was not long before he began formulating some regrets about this “unfortunate young woman,” and the priest replied that there was nothing to do now but pray for her.
“Yet,” Homais went on, “one of two things; either she died in a state of grace (as the Church has it), and then she has no need of our prayers; or else she departed impertinent (that is, I believe, the ecclesiastical expression), and then—”
Bournisien interrupted him, replying testily that it was none the less necessary to pray.
“But,” objected the chemist, “since God knows all our needs, what can be the good of prayer?”
“What!” cried the ecclesiastic, “prayer! Why, aren’t you a Christian?”
“Excuse me,” said Homais; “I admire Christianity. To begin with, it enfranchised the slaves, introduced into the world a morality—”