“Chorus!” commanded the Archbishop; and this time our voices were louder and more assured.
“And the little tailor boy, he stole broadcloth,
To keep these three rogues warm.”
“The miller was drowned in his dam,
The weaver was hung by his yarn,
But the Devil ran away with the little tailor boy,
With the broadcloth under his arm.”
There was a joyous shout from our ranks. We understood it all now. The Archbishop was misbehaving himself, was flaunting his misbehaviour in Madame Bouron’s face. We knew very well what would be said to us, if we sang a song like that, without the Archiepiscopal sanction, and there was a delicious sense of impunity in our hearts, as we vociferated the unhallowed lines:—
“But the Devil ran away with the little tailor boy,
With the broadcloth under his arm.”