One thing, above all, most excited remark: In the evening he seldom sat long after dark. Not that then, as of yore, he'd go out for "a lark" With his friends; but when they, After taking _cafe_, Would have broiled bones and kidneys brought in on a tray, --Which I own I consider a very good way, If a man's not dyspeptic, to wind up the day-- No persuasion on earth could induce him to stay; But he'd take up his candlestick, just nod his head By way of "Good evening!" and walk off to bed. Yet even when there he seem'd no better off, For he'd wheeze, and he'd sneeze, and he'd hem! and he cough; And they'd hear him all night, Sometimes, sobbing outright, While his valet, who often endeavour'd to peep, Declared that "his master was never asleep! But would sigh, and would groan, slap his forehead, and weep; That about ten o'clock His door he would lock, And then never would open it, let who would knock!-- He had heard him," he said, "Sometimes jump out of bed, And talk as if speaking to one who was dead! He'd groan and he'd moan, In so piteous a tone, Begging some one or other to let him alone, That it really would soften the heart of a stone To hear him exclaim so, and call upon Heaven; Then--The bother began always _just at eleven_!" François Xavier Auguste, as I've told you before, I believe, was a popular man in his _corps_, And his comrades, not one Of whom knew of the Nun, Now began to consult what was best to be done. Count Cordon Bleu And the Sieur de la Roue Confess'd they did _not_ know at all what to do: But the Chevalier Hippolyte Hector Achille Alphonso Stanislaus Emile de Grandville Made a fervent appeal To the zeal they must feel For their friend, so distinguished an officer, 's weal. "The first thing," he said, "was to find out the matter That bored their poor friend so, and caused all this clatter-- _Mort de ma vie!_" --Here he took some rapee-- "Be the cause what it may, he shall tell it to me!"-- He was right, sure enough--in a couple of days He worms out the whole story of Sister Therèse, Now entomb'd, poor dear soul! in some Dutch _Père la Chaise_. --"But the worst thing of all," François Xavier declares, "Is, whenever I've taken my candle up-stairs, There's Therèse sitting there--upon one of those chairs! Such a frown, too, she wears, And so frightfully glares, That I'm really prevented from saying my pray'rs, While an odour,--the very reverse of perfume,-- More like rhubarb or senna,--pervades the whole room!