The holy man had so little distrust of his mignonette that he would often in passing pick a spray and inhale its fragrance for a long time. All the plant asked was to be permitted to grow. If one spray was cut, four grew in its place. So much so, indeed, that, the devil aiding, the priest’s mignonette soon covered a vast extent of his little garden. It overflowed into the paths and pulled at the good priest’s cassock as he passed, until, distracted by the foolish plant, he would pause as often as twenty times an hour while he read or said his prayers. From springtime until autumn the presbytery was redolent of mignonette. Behold what we may come to and how feeble we are! Not without reason do we say that all our natural inclinations lead us towards sin! The man of God had succeeded in guarding his eyes, but he had left his nostrils undefended, and so the devil, as it were, caught him by the nose. This saint now inhaled the fragrance of mignonette with avidity and lust, that is to say, with that sinful instinct which makes us long for the enjoyment of natural pleasures and which leads us into all sorts of temptations. Henceforth he seemed to take less delight in the odours of Paradise and the perfumes which are our Lady’s merits. His holiness dwindled, and he might, perhaps, have sunk into voluptuousness and become little by little like those lukewarm souls which Heaven rejects had not succour come to him in the nick of time. Once, long ago, in the Thebaid, an angel stole from a hermit a cup of gold which still bound the holy man to the vanities of earth. A similar mercy was vouchsafed to this priest of the Bocage. A white hen scratched the earth about the mignonette with such good-will that it all died. We are not informed whence this bird came. As for myself, I am inclined to believe that the angel who in the desert stole the hermit’s cup transformed himself into a white hen on purpose to destroy the only obstacle which barred the good priest’s path towards perfection. M. PIGEONNEAU TO GILBERT AUGUSTIN-THIERRY I have, as everybody knows, devoted my whole life to Egyptian archaeology. I should be very ungrateful to my country, to science, and to my-self, if I regretted the profession to which I was called. In my early youth and which I have followed with honour these forty years. My labours have not been in vain. I may say, without flattering myself, that my article on _The Handle of an Egyptian mirror in the Museum of the Louvre_ may still be consulted with profit, though it dates back to the beginning of my career. As for the exhaustive studies which I subsequently devoted to one of the bronze weights found in 1851 in the excavations at the Serapeium, it would be ungracious for me not to think well of them, as they opened for me the doors of the Institute.