Timothy and I are on detachment. We are billeted with M. le Curé, and
we mess at the schoolmaster's. Hence we are on good terms with all
parties, for of course a good schoolmaster shrugs his shoulders at
a priest, and a good priest returns the compliment. In war time,
however, the hatchet seems to be buried pretty deep. We have not seen
it sticking out anywhere.

M. le Curé has a beautiful rose garden, a cask of excellent cider, a
passable Sauterne, and a charming pony. He is a good fellow, I should
think, though without much education. His house--or what I have seen
of it--is the exact opposite of what an English country vicar's
would be. The only sitting-room that I have seen is as neat as an old
maid's. There is a polished floor, an oval polished table on which
repose four large albums at regular intervals, each on its own little
mat. There is a mantelpiece with gilt candlesticks and an ornate clock
under a glass dome. Round the walls are photographs of brother clergy,
the place of honour being assigned to a stout _Chanoine_. The chairs
are stiff and uncomfortable. One of them, which is more imposing
and uncomfortable than the rest, is obviously for the Bishop when he
comes. There are no papers, no books, no ash-trays, no confusion. I
have never seen M. le Curé sit there. I fancy he lives in the kitchen
and in his garden.

Timothy sleeps in the bed which the Bishop uses, and is told he ought
to feel _très saint_.

The wife of the schoolmaster cooks for us. She is an excellent soul.
We give her full marks. She has a smile and an omelette for every
emergency, and waves aside all Timothy's vagaries with "Ah, monsieur,
la jeunesse!" I am not sure that Timothy quite likes it!