highnesses, and turning to the priest, I said: "You are an excellent man,
Monsieur l'Abbe, to whom all of us here owe a debt of gratitude."

Everybody was laughing, in fact, except Marchas, who seemed furious, and
just then Karl Massouligny cried: "Sister Saint-Benedict, supper is on
the table!"

I made her go first with the priest, then I helped up Mother Paumelle,
whose arm I took and dragged her into the next room, which was no easy
task, for she seemed heavier than a lump of iron.

Stout Ponderel gave his arm to Mother Jean-Jean, who bemoaned her crutch,
and little Joseph Herbon took the idiot, La Putois, to the dining-room,
which was filled with the odor of the viands.

As soon as we were opposite our plates, the sister clapped her hands
three times, and, with the precision of soldiers presenting arms, the
women made a rapid sign of the cross, and then the priest slowly repeated
the Benedictus in Latin. Then we sat down, and the two fowls appeared,
brought in by Marchas, who chose to wait at table, rather than to sit
down as a guest to this ridiculous repast.

But I cried: "Bring the champagne at once!" and a cork flew out with the
noise of a pistol, and in spite of the resistance of the priest and of
the kind sister, the three hussars, sitting by the side of the three
invalids, emptied their three full glasses down their throats by force.

Massouligny, who possessed the faculty of making himself at home, and of
being on good terms with every one, wherever he was, made love to Mother
Paumelle in the drollest manner. The dropsical woman, who had retained