bably; for if Boileau very sensibly
remarked, that in order to write a good poem time and taste were
necessary, he did not add that boots were indispensable. Once for all, I
want my Polish boots to go out shooting in. Is not that plain enough,
Monsieur Mascarille?"

"Cough shooting, Monsieur l'Abbe?"

"_Maraud!_ wolf-shooting--in the wood. Come, quick, my boots, and no
chattering."

"Here are your boots, Monsieur l'Abbe. Truly you have no thought for
your health."

"Have you a design upon my boots, also? Be so good, most discursive
valet, as to fetch me my deer-skin gloves, my hat, and gun."

The Abbe de Voisenon was soon equipped with the aid of his valet, who,
during the operation of dressing, never ceased repeating to him:

"It is fearfully cold this morning. Dogs have been found frozen to death
in their kennels, fish dead in the fish-ponds, cattle dead in the
stables, birds dead on the trees, and even wolves dead in the forest."

"My good friend," replied the Abbe de Voisenon, "you have said too much;
your story of the wolves prevents me believing the rest: upon this I
start. Now listen to me. On my return from shooting I expect to find my
poultices ready, my asses-milk properly warmed, and my _tisanes_ mixed;
give directions about all this in the kitchen."

"Yes, Monsieur l'Abbe. He'll never return, that's certain," murmured the
valet, as he packed up his master in his great-coat, and drew his fur
cap well down over his ears.

Followed by three of his dogs, our abbe started on his shooting
excursion. At the very first step he took on leaving the court-yard, he
fell; but he was up in an instant, and brushed speedily along. It must
have been a strange spectacle to see this old man, as black as a mute at
a funeral, with his black gloves, black boots, black coat, all black in
short, tripping gayly along over the snow with three dogs at his heels,
sometimes whistling and shouting aloud, sometimes cracking his
pocket-whip, and occasionally pointing his fowling-piece in the
direction of a flight of crows.

He had passed through the village of Voisenon, and had just gained the
open country, when he was stopped at the entrance of a lane of small
cottages by a young girl, who, the instant she perceived him, cried out,

"Ah, monseigneur" (for many people styled him monseigneur), "it is
surely Providence that has sent you to us!"

"What is the matter?" inquired the abbe.

"Our grandfather is dying, and he is un