‘Well,’ exclaimed Sampson, turning to John Treverton, ‘I’ve always heard that Frenchmen were slow at learning foreign languages; but I could not have believed they’d be so disgustingly stupid as not to understand their own. Upon my word, Treverton, I don’t see any reason why you should explode in that fashion,’ he remonstrated, as Treverton fell back in his chair in a fit of irrepressible laughter. ‘_Allong_,’ cried Sampson. ‘_Voyci le pottage_; and I’m blessed if they haven’t emptied the bread basket into it!’ he exclaimed, contemplating with ineffable disgust the contents of the soup tureen, in which he beheld lumps of bread floating on the surface of a thin broth. ‘_Venez dong_, Treverton, _si vous avez finni de faire un sot de voter même, nous pouvons aussi bien commencer_.’ ‘_Mais, oui, monsieur_,’ cried the curé, enchanted at understanding about two words of this last speech, and beaming at the Englishman in a paroxysm of good nature. ‘_Oui, oui, oui, monsieur, commençons, commençons. C’est tres-bien dit._’ ‘Ah,’ grunted Sampson, ‘the old idiot is inspired when one talks about his dinner. If that bread-and-waterish broth is a specimen of the kewsine of this hotel, I don’t think much of it,’ he added. Poor as the soup was in appearance, Mr. Sampson found it was not amiss in flavour, and when a savoury preparation of some unknown fish had followed the soup tureen, and a fricassee of fowl and mushroom had replaced the fish, he began to feel at peace with the Pavillon d’en haut. A leg of mutton from the salt marshes completed his reconciliation to provincial cookery, and a dish of vanilla cream _à la Chateaubriand_ raised his spirits to enthusiasm. The two priests enjoyed their dinner thoroughly, and chatted gaily as they ate, but it was not till the dessert had been handed round by the brisk serving maid, and a bottle of Pomard had been placed on the table, that John Treverton approached the serious business of the evening. He waited till the chambermaid had left the room, and then, wheeling his chair round to the fire, piled with chestnut logs, invited Father le Mescam to do the same. Mr. Sampson and Father Gedain followed their example, and the four made a cosy circle round the hearth, each nursing his glass of red wine. ‘I am going to ask you a good many questions, Father le Mescam,’ began John Treverton. ‘I hope you won’t think me troublesome or impertinently inquisitive. However trivial my inquiries may seem, the result is a matter of life and death to me.’ ‘Ask what you will, sir,’ answered the curé. ‘So long as you ask no question which a priest ought not to answer, you may command me.’ CHAPTER XXXVI. KERGARIOU’S WIFE. ‘Father le Mescam,’ said John Treverton, ‘do you ever remember hearing of a girl who left this town a laundress to become afterwards a celebrity in Paris, as a stage dancer?’