But the worst was still to come. As he reached the end of the diabolical liqueur, he recalled, by who knows what spell, some of the dirty songs of aunty Bégon: _In Paris there was a White Canon_ ... and so on.... Imagine the fuss the next day, when his neighbouring cell mates joked to him knowingly: --Hey! Hey! Father Gaucher, you were well off your head last night when you went to bed. It all ended in tears, recriminations, fasting, the hair shirt, and chastisement, of course. But nothing, nothing could defeat the demon of the drink, and every evening, at the same time, the same story. * * * * * Meanwhile, the orders were flooding into the abbey, and it was a blessing. They came from Nîmes, Aix, Avignon, Marseilles.... Day by day the monastery was gradually turning into a factory. There were Brother packers, Brother labellers, Brother accountants, and even Brother wagoners. The service to the Lord, though, was getting well and truly lost, despite the odd peal of bells. But, I can reveal to you that the poor folk of the area weren't losing out by it.... And then, one fine Sunday morning, as the Treasurer was reading out his end of year report before the whole chapter, and the good Brothers, wide eyed and smiling, were listening, Father Gaucher rushed into the meeting shouting: --It's all over.... I am doing no more.... I want my cows back. --So what's wrong, Father Gaucher? asked the Prior, who could well imagine something of what was wrong. --What is wrong, your Grace?... What is wrong is that I am making an eternity of hell fire and forks for myself.... It is wrong that I am drinking, and I am drinking like a sot.... --But I told you to count the drops. --Oh! Yes, of course, count the drops! Actually, I count by tumblers these days.... Yes, Reverends, that's how bad things are. Three flagons every evening.... You must understand that this can't continue.... Have the elixir made by whomever you choose.... But, may I burn in God-sent fire, if I have anything more to do with it. This sobered up the chapter, at least. --But, wretched man, you will ruin us! the treasurer shouted, brandishing his account book. --Would you rather that I am damned? With that the Prior stood up: --Reverends, he said, stretching out his elegant white hand with its shining pastoral ring, there is a way to settle this.... It's in the evening, isn't it, my dear son, when the demon tempts you?... --Yes, Prior, regularly every evening.... As well as that, as the night approaches, I get, begging your pardon, the sweats, which grip me just like Capitou's ass when he sees them coming to saddle him. --Well then, let me reassure you.... Henceforth, every evening, during the service, we will say, for your benefit, the prayer of St. Augustine, to which a plenary indulgence is attached.... After that, you are covered no matter what happens.... It brings absolution during the actual commission of the sin.