“Thereupon the prior stood up.
“‛Reverend sirs,’ he said, stretching out his fine white hand, on which the pastoral ring glistened, ‛it can all be arranged.... It’s at night, is it not, my dear son, that the demon assails you?...’
‛Yes, Sir Prior, regularly every evening.... When I see the night coming on, I get all in a sweat, saving your Reverence’s presence, like Capitou’s ass, when he saw them come with the pack-saddle.’
“‛Well, then, keep your mind easy.... In future, every evening, during the office, we’ll recite on your behalf the Prayer of Saint Augustine, to which plenary indulgence is attached.... With that, you are safe, whatever happens.... It is absolution at the very moment of sin.’
“‘O that is good, thank you, Sir Prior.’
“And, without asking anything more, Father Gaucher returned to his alembics as light as a lark.
“And in fact, from that moment, every evening, at the end of compline, the officiant never failed to say:
“‘Let us pray for our poor Father Gaucher, who is sacrificing his soul in the interests of the community. Oremus, Domine....’
“And, while the prayer ran along all those white cowls prostrated in the shadow of the naves, like a little breeze over snow, away at the other end of the convent, behind the lighted windows of the distillery, Father Gaucher might be heard chanting open-throated:
“‘In Paris there dwells a White Father,
Patatin, patatan, tarabin, taraban;
In Paris there dwells a White Father
Who sets all the little nuns dancing,
Trip, trip, trip, trip in a garden;
Who sets all the....’”