Sleeplessness is almost always to be traced to indigestion. My friend,
Dr. Jacques, is there and he will tell you so.
Now, on that particular evening, it was last Friday, I had committed the mistake of eating brill, a fish that positively disagrees with me.
God grant that the account of the singular dream which ensued may inspire you with some prudent reflections.
Be that as it may, this was my dream, in all its extravagance.
I had, in this dream, the honor to belong, as senior curate, to one of the most frequented parish churches in Paris. What could be more ridiculous! I was, moreover, respectably stout, possessed a head decked with silver locks, well-shaped hands, an aquiline nose, great unction, the friendship of the lady worshippers, and, I venture to add, the esteem of the rector.
While I was reciting the thanksgiving after service, and at the same time unfastening the cords of my alb, the rector came up to me (I see him even now) blowing his nose.
"My dear friend," said he, "you hear confessions this evening, do you not?"
"Most certainly. Are you well this morning? I had a good congregation at mass."
Having said this, I finished my thanksgiving, put my alb into the wardrobe, and, offering a pinch to the rector, added cheerily:
"This is not breaking the fast, is it?"