This was the signal for us to break out and talk with the utmost imprudence; for we had now hit on a tune which we could all sing, and we did sing it with variations on princes, hypocrites, lazy monks, and fat prelates. It is only fair to Chamaille to say that his improvisations on this theme were by far the most brilliant; but the trio continued in most melodious measure to chant of bitter and sweet, of those who have too much faith, and those who have none; fanatics, Huguenots, bigots, and fools who think that they can put the fear of God into a man by a dagger thrust or a blow on the head. As if we were donkeys to be driven with a stick along the heavenly way! Damnation should be free to all who desire it, but let them burn in a future state without tormenting them here on earth, and meanwhile leave us in peace, each to act as seems good in his own eyes. We are told that Christ died for men; for the infidel, as well as the Christian, and in truth are we not all poor creatures, as like as peas in a pod, neither better nor worse? What place, then, should pride and cruelty have among us? Somewhat fatigued by all this conversation, we then resumed the worship of Bacchus, the only god respected by all three; even Chamaille declared that all the monks and sermons in the world could not turn him from this allegiance, for Bacchus is everywhere acknowledged as of true French lineage, and a real Christian. Are there not old pictures where our Saviour is represented treading the winepress under His feet? “Let us drink then, my friends, to our smiling god, whose red blood warms our hillsides and vineyards, rejoices our hearts, loosens our tongues, and breathes his right generous spirit over our France, filling her with the elixir of life.” Just here we stopped to take breath, and drink to France and common sense; for her motto is always to avoid extremes, if you would be wise; sometimes, it is true, one falls between two stools. All at once we heard a great banging of doors and heavy steps on the stairs, mingled with portentous puffings and appeals to all the saints in the calendar, and Mistress Louisa, the vicar’s housekeeper, made her appearance, wiping her fat red face with a corner of her apron. “Oh! Master, you are wanted at once! Come and help us.” “Come where, you old fool?” said her master with pardonable irritation. “Oh! save us, they will be here in a jiffy!” “Who? the caterpillars?--let them spread over the fields. Now I won’t hear another word about those brutes of farmers.” “But they are threatening the most dreadful things!” “Pooh! what do I care for them? Do they threaten to bring me before the Tribunal? Let them come on, I am ready for them.” “Ah, dear Master! a suit is nothing to what they threaten to do.” “For the love of Heaven, woman, speak out!”