“Why, yes!” he said, gobbling at his vivers with a voracity I learned not to wonder at later when I knew him more. “The same man. A good man, too, or I'm a Turk. I've envied Miss Walkinshaw this lusty, trusty, secret rogue for a good twelvemonth, and just on the eve of my leaving Dunkerque, by a very providence, the fellow gets drunk and finds himself dismissed. He came to me with a flush and a hiccough last night to ask a recommendation, and overlooking the peccadillo that is not of a nature confined to servants, Master Greig, let me tell thee, I gave him a place in my _entourage_. Madame will not like it, but no matter! she'll have time to forget it ere I see her again.” I felt a mild satisfaction to have the Swiss with us just because I had heard him called “Bernard” so often by his late employer. We rested for some hours after _déjeuner_, seated under a tree by the brink of the rivulet, and in the good humour of a man satisfied in nature the priest condescended to let me into some of his plans. We were bound for Paris in the first place. “Zounds!” he cried, “I am all impatience to clap eyes again on Lutetia, the sweet rogue, and eat decent bread and behold a noble gown and hear a right cadenza. And though thou hast lost thy Lyrnessides--la! la! la! I have thee there!--thou canst console thyself with the Haemonian lyre. Paris! oh, lad, I'd give all to have thy years and a winter or two in it. Still, we shall make shift--oh, yes! I warrant thee we shall make shift. We shall be there, at my closest reckoning, on the second day of Holy Week, and my health being so poorly we shall not wait to commence _de faire les Pâques_ an hour after. What's in a _soutane_, anyhow, that it should be permitted to mortify an honest priest's oesophagus?” I sighed in spite of myself, for he had made me think of our throwing of Easter eggs on the green at Hazel Den. “What!” he cried. “Does my frugal Scot fancy we have not enough trinkgeld for enjoyment. Why, look here!--and here!--and here!” He thrust his hand into his bosom and drew forth numerous rouleaux--so many that I thought his corpulence might well be a plethora of coin. “There!” said he, squeezing a rouleau till it burst and spreading out the gold upon the table before him. “Am I a poor parish priest or a very Croesus?” Then he scooped in the coins with his fat hands and returned all to his bosom. “_Allons!_” he said shortly; we were on the road again! That night we put up at the Bon Accueil in a town whose name escapes my recollection. He had gone to bed; through the wall from his chamber came the noise of his sleep, while I was at the writing of my first letter to Miss Walkinshaw, making the same as free and almost affectionate as I had been her lover, for as I know it now, I was but seeking in her for the face of the love of the first woman and the last my heart was given to.