“Ah, my dear Colas!” said he sadly, “I have told you more times than I could count that this is what we must all come to; all flesh is grass, here today and gone tomorrow, but in the heyday of your youth you would never listen to me. Now alas! your cup is nearly empty, only the dregs remain to you, but all the same you ought not to be afflicted, since God does you the honor to summon you before Him, and I am here to prepare and wash your soul if perchance it is not perfectly clean and ready. Come, sinner, the time is short!” “Vicar,” said I, “I will attend to you in a few moments.” “The Chariot of Death will not wait for you.” “In that case I shall have to go on my two feet.” “Breugnon, my brother,” said he solemnly, “relinquish your hold on the things of this world; why should you cling to them since they are naught but vanity and vexation of spirit?” “Too true,” said I, “and it breaks my heart to think of leaving old friends like you behind me in the midst of such desolation.” “We shall meet again!” said he, rolling up his eyes. “Let it be soon then! You remember the motto of the Duke of Guise, ‘Where I lead you follow!’” “Come, come, Breugnon, time is passing, and so are you; do you want the father of lies to snap up your sinful soul for his dinner? He will, if you do not make your confession quickly, Colas! I entreat you for my sake!” “For yours, for God’s, and for my own sake,” said I, “but first I have a word or two to say to the notary.” “Is it possible, Breugnon, that you will make the Eternal wait for the scrivener?” “The Eternal has all eternity, so He will not mind waiting, besides it is more polite for me to take leave of this world which I am quitting, before I greet the next world where I am--perhaps--expected.” As I insisted in spite of all he could say to the contrary, Master Paillard took out his writing-case and sat down on a stone by the roadside, surrounded by a circle of spectators, and all the dogs in the neighborhood, while I dictated to him my last will and testament. Having disposed of my money, I turned my attention to my soul under the direction of Chamaille, till at last, feeling that my strength failed me, “Baptiste,” said I, “your words are heavenly, but what avails the sky to a man whose throat is dry! Get me a stirrup-cup, for my soul is just about to spring to the saddle, so one bottle, if you love me!”