Well, as you will see, the good Lord was listening.
One Sunday after the Gospels, monsieur Martin took his place in the pulpit.
* * * * *
—Bretheren, he said, believe me, or believe me not, the other night, I found myself, yes me, a miserable sinner, at the very gates of paradise.
"I knocked. St. Peter himself opened the gates!
"—Well! It's you, my dear monsieur Martin, he began, which fine wind…? And what can I do for you?
"—Dear St. Peter, keeper of the key and the great book, if I may be so bold, could you tell me how many Cucugnanians are in heaven?
"—I can refuse you nothing, monsieur Martin. Sit down, we will look it up together.
"St. Peter then took up his thick book, opened it, and put on his spec's:
"—Now then, let's see: Cucugnan, you say. Cu…Cu…Cucugnan. Here we are. Cucugnan…. My dear monsieur Martin, the page is purest white. Not a soul…. There are no more Cucugnanians than there are fish bones in a turkey.