"It must be making rapid progress," she said.
"Nonsense," answered the author.

"It is not progressing at all." He was making no headway, but was, in fact, floundering hopelessly in the shallows of a desperate situation.

Two personages had stuck in the author's throat, and could move neither up nor down; one fat and good-natured, the other thin and sarcastic, like Mademoiselle d'Arxel.
He felt like a certain unfortunate Tuscan peasant, who had lately swallowed a fig with a bee upon it, and had died in consequence.

The "bee" understood that he really wanted to talk of his book; she stung him again and again to such a degree that he actually did talk about it.
His story was founded on a curious case of spiritual infection.

The hero was a French priest, an octogenarian, pious, pure, and learned.