_Furet._ With all my heart. Nevertheless, I’ll call him if you please, _mitred hog_, as I did the bishop of _Loan_ before he was cardinal _d’Estrée_. Now to matter of fact. The duchess _d’Aumont_ having surpris’d one of her chamber-maids in a very indecent posture with the marquis _de Villequier_, her son-in-law, turn’d her out of her service. The poor wench, distracted to find herself separated from her lover, told him, out of pure revenge, that the archbishop of _Rheims_ lay with the duchess every time the duke went to _Versailles_. How! my uncle! Ah! I cannot believe it; thou say’st this out of malice. _Scar._ Oh fie! oh fie! The archbishop of _Rheims_ debauch the duchess _d’Aumont_, his brother-in-law’s wife! Do not you plainly perceive this jade’s malice? If the duchess had but suffer’d her intrigue with the marquis, she would not have open’d her mouth. Oh, horrible! Oh, horrible! _Furet._ As much as you seem to wonder now, and abhor the thoughts of such doings, you were not formerly so nice, nor incredulous. _Scar._ Be not angry, good Monsieur _l’Abbé_; I do believe as bad of a priest, as you can desire to have me; therefore pray continue. _Furet._ By what follows you’ll find that the spirit of revenge discover’d a most luscious intrigue. Since you will not believe what I say, reply’d the wench to her gallant, I will, the next time the duke goes to _Versailles_, make your eyes convince you. The duchess, you must know, had imprudently given her leave to stay three or four days in her house. As it happen’d, the duke went that afternoon to court, who was no sooner gone, and the marquis plac’d in a dark room leading to the duchess’s bed-chamber, but by comes the archbishop, muffled up with a dark-lanthorn in his hand. This convinced the young marquis, and was enough to convince a more incredulous man than your worship. _Scar._ It was perhaps some phantome, or some amorous Devil, who to do himself honour, had taken the archbishop’s goodly form and sanctify’d mien. _Furet._ Still excusing the priests! You were not such an advocate of theirs in the other world, witness your answer to your parish-priest, some few hours before you pack’d up for this place. _Scar._ I have since drank a swinging draught of _Lethe_’s forgetful stream; I remember nothing of it: You would, perhaps, scandalize me. _Furet._ It was thus, Sir, the grave hypocrite administring the last idolatrous ceremonies, asked if you knew what you received; to which you made this short answer: _The body of your God carried by an ass_. _Scar._ ’Tis true, ’tis true, Monsieur _l’Abbé_; pray who can endure to be disturb’ by an impertinent coxcomb, when he’s going to take a long voyage? But go on, I will not speak one word more in their behalf.