and idle women, a world ridden with greed and ambition. He knew the world. He had lived in it for a long time. He knew those who ruled the world. The poor were humble, but the poor in power would be no different. No, he had seen too much of the world, years and years too much.
There was a sound of footsteps on the stairs and he put down the glass of wine to listen. He knew the steps. They were Fulco's, shuffling, timid, uncertain. He knew the creaking boots. For some reason Fulco's boots always creaked. He rose and lighted a candle, wearily, for he would rather have received Fulco in the dark. There was a knock on the door, a timid, apologetic knock. It was his past knocking. It was his fiery, unhappy youth. There were people, he thought bitterly, who said that youth was the time of happiness.
The door opened and his son stood there, fat and squat and awkward in his priest's clothes, and ill at ease like a peasant, with red swollen peasant's hands and a round face covered with pimples. Only the eyes were her eyes, great, brown, gentle, sensitive eyes, like a doe's, in which the shadow of pain was mirrored so easily. He had wanted it dark so that he could not see those eyes.
He tried to speak kindly. "Sit down, Fulco. Where have you been?"
The man sat down. (He must be nearly forty-one, thought Father d'Astier.) His hands clasped his hat. It was not the proper manner for a priest, but rather the manner of a timid commercial traveler trying to sell an article which no one wanted. (He will never rise in the Church, thought
