"I assure you, monsieur," pronounced Jean Benoit, with his full armory of oratorical gestures, "that a friend of Monseigneur Chamilly will always have our best. Ascend, sir.--Josephte, place Monsieur the chair." Never was there a greater occasion of state. Their guest raised his hat to the young lady and her mother, who threw into her carriage all the dignity and suavity she could command. Then he ascended and sat gratefully down, for he was fatigued. The grandfather had laid his instrument on a spinning-wheel within the door, and slowly lit a pipe with both hands. The bar-tender jumped from his perch and stood with a familiar leer, of which when Benoit said "Mr. Cuiller, monsieur," Chrysler took trifling notice. On the other hand the pale lover remained modestly down the steps, and his cheerfulness redoubled when Chrysler nodded to him, passingly introduced as "Le Brun." "Does the gentleman take white whiskey,[G] or well milk?" asked the old man. "Josephte, bring some milk." [Footnote G: Highwines.] The daughter darted into the house.--"There is tea on the stove, Josephte!" Madame called hurriedly inwards, "and bring out some cakes and apples, and perhaps Monsieur would like new honey.--Be comfortable, sir." "Monsieur has come into the parish for the election?" the old man queried politely. "Only to see what passes," he replied, accepting the bowl of milk which Josephte tendered him, and a piece of raisin cake from a pile on a blue-pattern plate.--"What do you think of it?" But a diversion occurred. The wife had retired a few moments, and a veteran piano commenced playing, while a spirited boy's voice struck up a hymn from the services of the Church,--"O Salutaris Hostia." It was her youngest son, whom she had not been able to resist showing off a little. Chrysler praised the voice, which was excellent, and the boy, attired in a neat, black, knee-breeches suit with white stockings, was proudly brought forward and presented. The grandfather had the twinkle in his eye of a true country violinist. "I was going to tell them a story of the old times, sir. Will you pardon me?" he said, with the twinkle sparkling. Chrysler protested his own desire to listen. "We always like to hear about the old times," said young Le Brun, apologetically. "It's about a rascality of Zotique's, the droll boy, when we were young--the delectable history of Mouton. Mouton, the servant of Pere Galibert, who in those times was Cure, was a fat man, of the air of a tallow image. You know Legros--the butcher's son,--just like that. If he had had red hair there would have been spontaneous combustion." "Someone stole the sacramental wine of Pere Galibert, and everyone except the Pere knew it was Mouton. Messire would never believe them, though it so angered him he preached fourteen discourses against the thief. They were eloquent sermons."