e.... I want my cows back.

--So what's wrong, Father Gaucher? asked the Prior, who could well
imagine something of what was wrong.

--What is wrong, your Grace?... What is wrong is that I am making an
eternity of hell fire and forks for myself.... It is wrong that I am
drinking, and I am drinking like a sot....

--But I told you to count the drops.

--Oh! Yes, of course, count the drops! Actually, I count by tumblers
these days.... Yes, Reverends, that's how bad things are. Three flagons
every evening.... You must understand that this can't continue.... Have
the elixir made by whomever you choose.... But, may I burn in God-sent
fire, if I have anything more to do with it.

This sobered up the chapter, at least.

--But, wretched man, you will ruin us! the treasurer shouted,
brandishing his account book.

--Would you rather that I am damned?

With that the Prior stood up:

--Reverends, he said, stretching out his elegant white hand with its
shining pastoral ring, there is a way to settle this.... It's in the
evening, isn't it, my dear son, when the demon tempts you?...

--Yes, Prior, regularly every evening.... As well as that, as the night
approaches, I get, begging your pardon, the sweats, which grip me just
like Capitou's ass when he sees them coming to saddle him.

--Well then, let me reassure you.... Henceforth, every evening, during
the service, we will say, for your benefit, the prayer of St.
Augustine, to which a plenary indulgence is attached.... After that,
you are covered no matter what happens.... It brings absolution during
the actual commission of the sin.

--Oh that's really excellent! Thank you so much, Prior!

And without asking for more, Father Gaucher went happily back to his
stills, walking on air.

Actually, from that moment, every evening, at the end of the last
service of the day, the celebrant never forgot to add:

--Let us pray for our unfortunate Father Gaucher, who is sacrificing
his soul for the benefit of the community.... Pray for us, Lord....

And while, on all the white hoods of the Brothers, prostrated in the
shade of the naves, the prayer fluttered like a slight breeze on snow,
elsewhere, at the back of the monastery, behind the flickering reddened
glass of the distillery, Father Gaucher could be heard singing at the
top of his voice,

In Paris, there was a White Canon,
Who went all the way with a black nun....

* * * * *

... Here, the goo