‘What manners!’ cried the nobleman; ‘I am so grieved at the ill-conduct of my dog--No, Madame!’ as the lady stooped towards the cover of the box, which had contained the delicious tempting pie. ‘Never, Madame; allow me.’ ‘Allow me!’ said the bishop, bending his knee, and stooping towards it. But Mademoiselle Baptistine was as active as either of the men; and thus it came to pass that the three heads met over the lid of the box; and at the same moment the bishop and the Marquis read a printed shop-label, pasted upon it, and directed in manuscript to the bishop, from-- ‘_Jacques de Narbonne-Lara (formerly Lara), Maker of the celebrated Strasbourg Goose-liver Pasties. Rue des Capuchins, 6; Strasbourg._’ ‘Sapient dog!’ said the nobleman, rising, and blowing his nose. ‘My wise Leo knows what is good. Ah! the pasty is utterly gone, he has eaten it. I quite envy him the mouthful. Pray accept my deepest regret for his misconduct.’ ‘Do not mention it,’ answered the bishop, with his eyes still on the hateful label. ‘I am so glad to have the address,’ said the Marquis, with a slight tinge of sarcasm in his voice; ‘I will write to the shop and order some of these pasties for myself--I dote on the paté de foix gras.’ And he bowed himself out of the room. ‘What has that fool Jacques been about?’ asked the bishop, throwing himself back in his chair, and clasping his hands in the air above his head. ‘My dear brother!’ answered Baptistine, ‘Jacques has assumed the same name as you have; he is proud of being brother to a bishop, that is why--and he has sent you the pasty as an offering of brotherly love--so he says in his letter. I found the box on the table in the hall, and all the servants round it, laughing. I snatched it from them, and brought it up here, when----’ the rest was drowned in tears. ‘He had better have sent me a halter,’ said the bishop. CHAPTER IV. Famine reigned in France, for the resources of the country were drained off to sustain the court in luxury and vice. In seven years, Louis XV added seven hundred and fifty millions of francs to the two billions and a half of debts left by Louis XIV. Archbishop Fénélon wrote to the Grand Monarque: ‘At length, France is become one great hospital, desolate and unprovided with the necessaries of life. By yourself alone these disasters have been created. In the ruin of France, everything has passed into your hands; and your subjects are reduced to live upon your bounty.’ Louis the Well-Beloved was hunting one day in the forest of Sénart. He met a peasant carrying a coffin. ‘For whom is that coffin?’ asked the king. ‘For a man.’ ‘What did he die of?’ ‘Hunger.’ France was dying: in a few years, but for the Revolution, it would have been dead and buried, killed by famine. ‘In my diocese,’ said the Bishop of Chartres, ‘men browse with the sheep.’