oice.
　　"I persist," continued the conventionary G---- "You have mentioned Louis XVII.
　　to me.
　　Let us come to an understanding.
　　Shall we weep for all the innocent, all martyrs, all children, the lowly as well as the exalted?
　　I agree to that.
　　But in that case, as I have told you, we must go back further than '93, and our tears must begin before Louis XVII.
　　I will weep with you over the children of kings, provided that you will weep with me over the children of the people."
　　"I weep for all," said the Bishop.
　　"Equally!" exclaimed conventionary G----; "and if the balance must incline, let it be on the side of the people.
　　They have been suffering longer."
　　Another silence ensued.
　　The conventionary was the first to break it. He raised himself on one elbow, took a bit of his cheek between his thumb and his forefinger, as one does mechanically when one interrogates and judges, and appealed to the Bishop with a gaze full of all the forces of the death agony.
　　It was almost an explosion.
　　"Yes, sir, the people have been suffering a long while.
　　And hold! that is not all, either; why have you just questioned me and talked to me about Louis XVII.? I know you not.
　　Ever since I have been in these parts I have dwelt in this enclosure alone, never setting foot outside, and seeing no one but that child who helps me. Your name has reached me in a confused manner, it is true, and very badly pronounced, I must admit; but that signifies nothing:
　　clever men have so many ways of imposing on that honest goodman, the people. By the way, I did not hear the sound of your carriage; you have left it yonder, behind the coppice at the fork of the roads, no doubt. I do not know you, I tell you.
　　You have told me that you are the Bishop; but that affords me no information as to your moral personality. In short, I repeat my question.
　　Who are you?
　　You are a bishop; that is to say, a prince of the church, one of those gilded men with heraldic bearings and revenues, who have vast prebends,-- the bishopric of D---- fifteen thousand francs settled income, ten thousand in perquisites; total, twenty-five thousand francs,-- who have kitchens, who have liveries, who make good cheer, who eat moor-hens on Friday, who strut about, a lackey before, 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 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.◢◢文◢檔◢共◢享◢與◢在◢線◢閱◢讀◢
　　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 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