Pantagruel.

The Abbe Birotteau spent the first days of his mourning in verifying the
books in _his_ library, in making use of _his_ furniture, in examining
the whole of his inheritance, saying in a tone which, unfortunately,
was not noted at the time, "Poor Chapeloud!" His joy and his grief so
completely absorbed him that he felt no pain when he found that the
office of canon, in which the late Chapeloud had hoped his friend
Birotteau might succeed him, was given to another. Mademoiselle Gamard
having cheerfully agreed to take the vicar to board, the latter was
thenceforth a participator in all those felicities of material comfort
of which the deceased canon had been wont to boast.

Incalculable they were! According to the Abbe Chapeloud none of the
priests who inhabited the city of Tours, not even the archbishop, had
ever been the object of such minute and delicate attentions as those
bestowed by Mademoiselle Gamard on her two lodgers. The first words
the canon said to his friend when they met for their walk on the Mail
referred usually to the succulent dinner he had just eaten; and it was a
very rare thing if during the walks of each week he did not say at least
fourteen times, "That excellent spinster certainly has a vocation for
serving ecclesiastics."

"Just think," the canon would say to Birotteau, "that for twelve
consecutive years nothing has ever been amiss,--linen in perfect order,
bands, albs, surplices; I find everything in its place, always in
sufficient quantity, and smelling of orris-root. My furniture is rubbed
and kept so bright that I don't know when I have seen any dust--did
you ever see a speck of it in my rooms? Then the firewood is so well
selected. The least little things are excellent. In fact, Mademoiselle
Gamard keeps an incessant watch over my wants. I can't remember having
rung twice for anything--no matter what--in ten years. That's what
I call living! I never have to look for a single thing, not even my
slippers. Always a good fire, always a good dinner. Once the bellows
annoyed me, the nozzle was choked up; but I only mentioned it once, and
the next day Mademoiselle gave me a very pretty pair, also those nice
tongs you see me mend the fire with."

For all answer Birotteau would say, "Smelling of orris-root!" That
"smelling of orris-root" always affected him. The canon's remarks
revealed ideal joys to the poor vicar, whose bands and albs were the
plague of his life, for he was totally