Without any further preamble the priest took a seat near the fire by the side of the Capuchin friar.

Hearing the good friar reading aloud:

“Pucelle sage, nette et fine,
Aide des femnies en gésine,”

he clapped his hands and said:

“Oh, the rare bird! The unique man! A Capuchin who is able to read! Eh, little friar, what is your name?”

“Friar Ange, an unworthy Capuchin,” replied my teacher.

My mother, hearing the voices from the upper room descended to the shop, attracted by curiosity.

The priest greeted her with an already familiar politeness and said:

“That is really wonderful, mistress; Friar Ange is a Capuchin and knows how to read.”

“He is able to read all sorts of writing,” replied my mother.