“I am,” said Espérit. “And I also, comrade: If it pleases you, we could make the journey together.” “Willingly, my friend.” Now this gracious youth was an angel sent by God. Espérit and the angel then set forth on [Illustration: FÉLIX GRAS. POET AND FÉLIBRE.] the road to Rome; and thus, joyfully, through sunshine and shower, begging their bread and singing psalms, the little gourd at the end of a stick, they arrived at last in the city of Rome. Having rested, they paid their devotions at the great church of Saint Peter, they visited in turn the basilicas, the chapels, the oratories, the sanctuaries, and all the sacred monuments, kissed the relics of the Apostles Peter and Paul, of the virgins, the martyrs, and also of the true Cross, and finally, before leaving, they saw the Pope, who gave them his blessing. Then Espérit with his companion went to rest under the porch of Saint Peter, and Espérit fell asleep. Now in his sleep the pilgrim saw in a dream his mother and his brothers burning in hell, and he saw himself with his father in the eternal glory of the Paradise of God. “Alas! if this is so,” he cried, “I beseech thee, my God, that I may take out of the flames my mother, my poor mother, and my brothers!” And God replied: “As for thy brothers, it is impossible, for they have disobeyed my commandments; but thy mother, perhaps, if thou canst, before her death, make her perform three charities.” Then Espérit awoke. The angel had disappeared. In vain he waited, searched for him, inquired after him, nowhere could he be found, and Espérit was obliged to leave Rome all alone. He went toward the sea-coast, where he picked up some shells with which he ornamented his cloak and his hat, and from there, slowly, by high roads and by-paths, valleys, and mountains, begging and praying, he came again to his own country. III It was thus he arrived at last at his native place and his own home. He had been away about two years. Haggard and wasted, tanned, dusty, ragged and bare-foot, with his little gourd at the end of his staff, his rosary and his shells, he was unrecognisable. No one knew him as he made his way to the paternal door and, knocking, said gently: “For God’s sake, I pray of your charity give to the poor pilgrim.” “Oh what a nuisance you are! Every day some of you pass here--a set of vagabonds, scamps, and vagrants!” “Alas! my spouse,” said the poor old Archimbaud from his bed, “give him something: who knows but our son is perhaps even at this moment in the same need!” Then the woman, though still grumbling, went off, and cutting a hunk of bread, gave it to the poor beggar. The following day the pilgrim returned again to the door of his parents’ house, saying: “For God’s sake, my mistress, give a little charity to the poor pilgrim.” “What! you are here again!” cried the old woman. “You know very well I gave to you yesterday--these gluttons would eat one out of house and home.”