I persisted: "Nobody! Come, monsieur, think; it would be very nice to
have some ladies, I mean to say, some married couples! I know nothing
about your parishioners. The baker and his wife, the grocer,
the--the--the--watchmaker--the--shoemaker--the--the druggist with Mrs.
Druggist. We have a good spread and plenty of wine, and we should be
enchanted to leave pleasant recollections of ourselves with the people
here."

The priest thought again for a long time, and then said resolutely: "No,
there is nobody." I began to laugh. "By Jove, Monsieur le Cure, it is
very annoying not to have an Epiphany queen, for we have the bean. Come,
think. Is there not a married mayor, or a married deputy mayor, or a
married municipal councillor or a schoolmaster?" "No, all the ladies have
gone away." "What, is there not in the whole place some good tradesman's
wife with her good tradesman, to whom we might give this pleasure, for it
would be a pleasure to them, a great pleasure under present
circumstances?"

But, suddenly, the cure began to laugh, and laughed so violently that he
fairly shook, and presently exclaimed: "Ha! ha! ha! I have got what you
want, yes. I have got what you want! Ha! ha! ha! We will laugh and enjoy
ourselves, my children; we will have some fun. How pleased the ladies
will be, I say, how delighted they will be! Ha! ha! Where are you
staying?"

I described the house, and he understood where it was. "Very good," he
said. "It belongs to Monsieur Bertin-Lavaille. I will be there in half an
hour, with four ladies! Ha! ha! ha! four ladies!"

He went out with me, still laughing, and left me, repeating: "That is