[Drinks.
Madelon. Once, indeed,—I thought it was hard,—Father Antony enjoined me penance, for thinking so much about you.
La Gloire. An old——What, by putting peas in your shoes, as usual?
Madelon. Yes; but, as it happened, I escaped.
La Gloire. Ay, marry! how?
Madelon. Why, as the famine pressed, the holy fathers had boiled all our punishments, in puddings for the convent; and there was not a penitential pea left in the town.
La Gloire. O, gluttony! to deprive the innocent of their hard, dry penances, and apply them, soft, to their own offending stomachs! I never could abide these pampered friars. They are the pot-bellied children of the Pope, nursed at the bosom of old mother church; and plaguy chubby boys they are. One convent of them, in a town, breeds a famine sooner than an English blockade. But, what says thy father within, here, Madelon, to our marriage?
Madelon. Truly, he has no objection, but in respect to your being a soldier.
La Gloire. Sacre bleu! object to my carrying arms! my glory! my pride!
Madelon. Pr'ythee, now, 'tis not for that.