I must have kept on climbing for the greater part of the night, and from what they tell me I sang for hours, all sorts of songs, sacred and profane, some edifying and some very much the reverse; I also played on the dulcimer as well as on the drum and trumpet, till at last all the neighborhood came out to listen and to say, “Poor old Colas, he is dying, and mad as mad can be.” The next morning the sun was out of his bed long before I was, for I never opened my eyes till near midday, and my first thought was, “Good, here I am still living!”--not but what my couch was hard enough, and I still had those horrible pains in the gizzard, but I was glad enough that my body was there to put a pain in. “Breugnon, old man,” said I, “it is a pleasure to see you; if you had died last night, I should never have got over it. Good-morning, dear garden, and everything in you!” And while I was gloating on my beautiful melons, I heard some one hailing me from the other side of the wall. “Breugnon, are you dead yet?” And there were Paillard and Chamaille weeping and wailing, and prepared already to proclaim the virtues of the dear departed. I crawled slowly from my bed, for my back was still confoundedly painful, and put my head gently out of the window. “Here he is,” said I. “Cuckoo!” “Colas!” they cried, laughing, while the tears ran down their faces, and I stuck out my tongue at them, telling them that I was not dead yet by a long sight, but if you will believe me those friends actually kept me shut up for ten days longer, till they were perfectly certain that I was entirely recovered. It is only fair to say that they kept me well supplied with bread and water,--I mean the kind that Noah drank,--and they came every day and sat under my window and told me all the news of town and country. When at last I was set free, Chamaille wanted me to go at once and return thanks to St. Roch, who according to him had delivered me from my mortal sickness. I told him I thought the saints that saved me had come out of three quart bottles. “Well, Colas,” said he, “we will split the difference, you come first with me to St. Roch and I will help you afterwards to render due thanks to St. Vineyard.” So we made both these pious pilgrimages, all three together, for Paillard insisted on joining us. “Friends,” said I, “you were not so anxious to go with me the other day.” “You know I love you,” said Paillard, “but I love my own self better, and as the proverb says, ‘My skin fits tighter than my waistcoat.’” “I am an old coward,” said Chamaille, thumping himself on the chest, and looking very shamefaced. “Well then,” said I, “of what use are all the precepts of religion and of Cato?” We all looked at each other and laughed. “Life is sweet,” we cried, “and good men are scarce; if God thought fit to put us into this world, it is our duty to stay here as long as we can.” VIII MY OLD WOMAN’S DEATH