But, while waiting orders to return to the King of kings, who, in a moment of generosity, kindly loaned us these plump cherubs to lighten our sorrows, these young Christian dancers practise our profane joys faithfully, without, however, neglecting their sacred pleasures. In fact, the young Christian dancer should possess his chronicle of church and sacristy, as an habitué of the Opéra keeps his record of all that goes on behind the scenes. The dancing Christian should know all the fashionable preachers, their manners, their habits, anecdotes of their private life; should be able to tell how the Abbé ---- does not write his own sermons; how Abbé ---- has ousted the Abbé ----; how Abbé ---- is very graceful or very awkward when he preaches; how rudely one of the vicars of St. Thomas of Aquinas squabbled with his curé; how some pious soul discovered, on the hat of a lady who is no longer young, but youthful looking and well preserved, several yards of splendid old lace that she herself had offered to the jovial curé of S----, to make an altar cloth for his church. The dancing Christian should, in a word, know which are the best places in church to see and hear the preacher; he must never lose the first hearing of a sermon or a conference, and must always be on hand afterwards, to report as to its success or failure, exactly as though it were a new opera that was under discussion. Thanks to this perpetual haunting of the pulpit and the sacristy, and to the vigour of his calves, the young Christian dancer, who is recognised as such, enjoys all the privileges that are attached to his eccentric position. Always a Christian, everywhere a Christian, at a ball, at the theatre, at the table, in the country, in town, standing, sitting down, in bed, dreaming or awake, he is intolerant, inquisitorial, indignant; he assigns you at once your place, either in heaven or hell; he fulminates fearful anathemas on the new Gomorrah while he drinks his punch, or cries "Babylon! Babylon!" as he sups like an ogre. Finally, with a terrible cry of desolation, he announces the near and threatening probability of the last judgment, and then goes off to dance the cotillon. After which, worn out, overcome by the fatigues of the sermon and the ball, he goes to bed, and is very soon oppressed by a frightful nightmare. He dreams he is a father confessor, and that his last partner, with whom he discussed the honest modesty of Joseph fleeing from Potiphar's wife, comes to confess to him that she committed all sorts of ravishing sins with a Jansenist, two Calvinists, eleven deists, and she does not know how many atheists.