They laughed, sang, told stories, and one of the fathers recited some very good verses he had himself composed.
At last a monk arose, and said, "Father Cellarer, what have you to say?"
"True," said the father, "I am not cellarer for nothing."
He left, and soon returned with three servitors, the first of whom brought some glorious fresh buttered toast. The others had a table on which was a sweetened preparation of brandy and water—vulgo, punch.
The new comers were received with acclamation; the company ate the toasts, drank the toddy, and when the abbey clock struck twelve, all went to their cells to enjoy a repose they had richly earned.
PROSPERITY EN ROUTE.
One day I rode a horse I called la Joie through the It was at the worst era of the revolution, and I went to see Mr. Prot to obtain a passport which, probably, might save me from prison or the scaffold.
At about 11 P. M., I reached a little bourg or village called Mont St. Vaudrey, and having first attended to my horse, was struck by a spectacle no traveller ever saw without delight.
Before a fire was a spit covered with cock quails and the rails that are always so fat. All the juice from the quails fell on an immense rotie so built up that the huntsman's hand was apparent. Then came one of those leverets, the perfume of which Parisians have no faith in though they fill the room.
"Ah ha!" said I; "Providence has not entirely deserted me. Let us scent this perfume and die afterwards."