“Hello! host, serve me a good portion!” With grey hair, he still looked full of health and strength. His mouth was laughing and his eyes were sprightly, his cheeks were somewhat heavy and his three chins dropped majestically on a neckband which, maybe by sympathy, had become as greasy as the throat it enveloped. My father, courteous by profession, lifted his cap and bowing said: “If your reverence will be so good as to warm yourself near the fire, I’ll soon serve you with what you desire.” Without any further preamble the priest took a seat near the fire by the side of the Capuchin friar. Hearing the good friar reading aloud: “Pucelle sage, nette et fine, Aide des femnies en gésine,” he clapped his hands and said: “Oh, the rare bird! The unique man! A Capuchin who is able to read! Eh, little friar, what is your name?” “Friar Ange, an unworthy Capuchin,” replied my teacher. My mother, hearing the voices from the upper room descended to the shop, attracted by curiosity. The priest greeted her with an already familiar politeness and said: “That is really wonderful, mistress; Friar Ange is a Capuchin and knows how to read.” “He is able to read all sorts of writing,” replied my mother. And going near the friar, she recognised the prayer of St Margaret by the picture representing the maiden martyr with a holy-water sprinkler in her hand. “This prayer,” she added, “is difficult to read because the words of it are very small and hardly divided, but happily it is quite sufficient, when in labour-pains, to apply it like a plaster on the place where the most pain is felt and it operates just as well, and rather better, than when it is recited. I had the proof of it, sir, when my son Jacquot was born, who is here present.” “Do not doubt about it, my good dame,” said Friar Ange. “The orison of St Margaret is sovereign for what you mentioned, but under the special condition that the Capuchins get their Maundy.” In saying so, Friar Ange emptied the goblet of wine which my mother had filled up for him and, throwing his wallet over his shoulder, went off in the direction of the _Little Bacchus_. My father served a quarter of fowl to the priest, who took out of his pocket a piece of bread, a flagon of wine and a knife, the copper handle of which represented the late king on a column in the costume of a Roman emperor, and began to have his supper. But having hardly taken the first morsel in his mouth he turned round on my father and asked for some salt, rather surprised that no salt cellar had been presented to him offhand. “So did the ancients use it,” he said, “they offered salt as a sign of hospitality. They also placed salt cellars in the temples on the tablecloths of the gods.” My father presented him with some bay salt out of the wooden shoe which was hung on the mantelpiece. The priest took what he wanted of it and said: