my part, when I take to scratching myself I imagine myself to be God's
dog, and that's what makes me say that all Paradise looks out of the
windows to smile at me. You might just as well laugh too, Monsieur le
Cure. It's all done for the saints and you. See! here's a turn-over for
Saint Joseph; here's another for Saint Michael, and another for Saint
John, and another for Saint Mark, and another for Saint Matthew----'

So he went on, enumerating a whole string of saints, and turning
somersaults all round the room.

Abbe Mouret, who had been sitting in perfect silence, with his hands
resting on the edge of the table, was at last constrained to smile. As
a rule, the Brother's sportiveness only disquieted him. La Teuse, as
Archangias rolled within her reach, kicked at him with her foot.

'Come!' she said, 'are we to have our game to-night?'

His only reply was a grunt. Then, upon all fours, he sprang towards La
Teuse as if he meant to bite her. But in lieu thereof he spat upon her
petticoats.

'Let me alone! will you?' she cried. 'What are you up to now? I begin
to think you have gone crazy. What it is that amuses you so much I can't
conceive.'

'What makes me gay is my own affair,' he replied, rising to his feet and
shaking himself. 'It is not necessary to explain it to you, La Teuse.
However, as you want a game of cards, let us have it.'

Then the game began. It was a terrible struggle. The Brother hurled
his cards upon the table. Whenever he cried out the windows shook
sonorously. La Teuse at last seemed to be winning. She had secured three
aces for some time already, and was casting longing eyes at the fourth.
But Brother Archangias began to indulge in fresh outbursts of gaiety.
He pushed up the table, at the risk of breaking the lamp. He cheated
outrageously, and defended himself by means of the most abominable
lies, 'Just for a joke,' said he. Then he suddenly began to sing the
'Vespers,' beating time on the palm of his left hand with his cards.
When his gaiety reached a climax, and he could find no adequate means
of expressing it, he always took to chanting the 'Vespers,' which he
repeated for hours at a time. La Teuse, who well knew his habits, cried
out to him, amidst the bellowing with which he shook the room:

'Make a little less noise, do! It is quite distracting. You are much too
lively to-night.'

But he set to work on the 'Complines.' Abbe Mouret had now seated
himself by the window. He appeared to