“We are playthings of the winds,” said my tutor, and sighed. “Everything laughs at us, the sky, the stars, rain and shadow, zephyr and light and woman. Let Catherine sup with us. She is pretty and will enliven our table. Whatever she may have done, that kiss and the rest, do not render her the less pleasant to look at. The infidelities of women do not spoil their beauty. Nature, pleased to adorn them, is indifferent to their faults; follow her, and forgive Catherine.” I seconded my tutor’s entreaties, and M. d’Anquetil consented to free the prisoner. He went to the door of the room from whence the cries came, unlocked it, and called Catherine, whose only reply was to redouble her wailing. “Gentlemen,” her lover said to us, “there she is lying flat on her belly, her head plunged in the pillows, and at every sob raising her rump ridiculously. Look at that. It is for such we take so much trouble and commit so many absurdities! Catherine, come to supper.” But Catherine did not move, and continued to cry. He pulled her by the arm, by the waist. She resisted. He became more pressing, and said caressingly: “Come, darling, get up.” But she was stubborn, would not change place, and stuck there, holding to pillows and mattress. At last her lover lost patience, swore, and shouted rudely: “Get up, slut!” At once she got up, and, smiling amid her tears, took his arm and came with him to the dining-room, looking the very picture of a happy victim. She sat down between M. d’Anquetil and me, her head inclined on the shoulder of her lover the while her foot felt for mine under the table. “Gentlemen,” said our host, “forgive my vivacity, an impulse I cannot regret, because it gives me the honour to entertain you at this place. To say the truth, I cannot endure all the whims of this pretty girl, and I have been very suspicious since I surprised her with her Capuchin.” “My dear friend,” Catherine said, pressing at the sama time her foot on mine, “your jealousy goes astray. You should know that my only liking is for M. Jacques.” “She jests,” said M. d’Anquetil. “Do not doubt of it,” said I. “It is quite evident that she loves you, and you alone.” “Without flattering myself,” he replied, “I have somehow attracted her attachment. But she is coquettish and fickle.” “Give me something to drink,” said the abbe. M. d’Anquetil passed him the demijohn and exclaimed: “By gad! abbé, you who belong to the Church, you’ll tell us why women love Capuchins.” M. Coignard wiped his lips and said: “The reason is that Capuchins love humbly, and never refuse anything. Another reason is that neither reflection nor courtesy weakens their natural instincts. Sir, yours is a generous wine.” “You do me too much honour,” replied M. d’Anquetil. “It is M. de la Guéritude’s. I have taken his mistress. I may as well take his bottles.” “Nothing is more equitable,” said my tutor. “I see, with pleasure, that you rise above prejudices.”