"So much the better! Dolores only has what she deserves. This will teach her to fall in love with the most detestable of men. She will remain in the convent, she shall take the veil there. My excellent friend and companion, Abbé Ledoux, is perfectly right; by this sample of my niece's tricks I shall know what to expect, if I keep her near me,--perpetual alarms and insults until I had her married, well or ill. Now to cut short all this the Senora Dolores will take the veil, and accomplish her salvation; my wealth will some day enrich the house, where they will pray for the repose of my soul, and I will be relieved of this she-devil of a niece,--three benefits for one." "But, my lord, if the condition of the senora requires--" "Not a word more, Pablo!" cried the canon, fearing he might be moved to pity in spite of himself. "Not a word more. Have I not, alas! enough personal troubles without your coming to torture me, to irritate me, with contradictions?" "Pardon, sir, then, I wish to speak to you of another thing." "Of what?" "There is a man in the antechamber who desires to speak with you." "Who is this man?" "An old man, well dressed." "And what does this man want?" "To talk with you, sir, upon a very important affair. He has brought with him a large box that a porter has just delivered. It seems very heavy." "And what is this box, Pablo?" "I do not know, sir." "And the name of this man?" "Oh, a very strange name." "What?" "Appetite, sir." "What! this man's name is Appetite?" "Yes, sir." "You must have misunderstood him." "No, sir, I made him repeat his name twice. It is certainly Appetite." "Alas, alas! what a cruelly ironical name!" murmured the canon, with bitterness. "But no matter, for the rarity of the name, send this man in to me." An instant after the man announced by the majordomo entered, respectfully saluted Dom Diégo, and said to him: "It is Lord Dom Diégo whom I have the honour of addressing?" "Yes, what do you wish of me?" "First, sir, to pay you the tribute of my profound admiration; then, to offer you my services." "But, monsieur, what is your name?" "Appetite, sir." "Do you write your name as appetite, the desire for food, is written?" "Yes, sir, but I confess that it is not my name, but my surname." "To deserve such a surname you ought to be eminently well endowed by nature, M. Appetite; you ought to enjoy an eternal hunger," said the canon, with a sigh of regretful envy. "On the contrary, I eat very little, sir, as almost all those who have the sacred mission of making others eat." "How? What, then, is your profession?" "Cook, sir, and would like the honour of serving you, if I can merit that felicity." The canon shook his head sadly, and hid his face in his hands; he felt all his griefs revive at the proposition of M. Appetite, who went on to say: