st to soften the fury of religious animosities,
and have been fortunate enough to save several of my friends.'

"'Oliver de Basseville tells every body he owes you his life.'

"'Behold me then a Catholic,' continued George, in a calmer voice. 'The
religion is as good as another: and then it is an easy and pleasant one.
See yonder pretty Madonna: 'tis the portrait of an Italian courtesan;
but the bigots praise my piety when I cross myself before it. My word
for it, I get on vastly better with Rome than Geneva. By making trifling
sacrifices to the opinions of the _canaille_, I live as I like. I must
go to mass--very good! I go there and stare at the pretty women. I must
have a confessor--_parbleu!_ I have one, a jolly Franciscan and
ex-dragoon, who for a crown-piece gives me a ticket of confession, and
delivers my billets-doux to his pretty penitents into the bargain. _Mort
de ma vie! Vive la messe!_'

"Mergy could not restrain a smile.

"'There is my breviary,' continued the Captain, throwing his brother a
richly-bound book, fastened with silver clasps, and enclosed in a velvet
case. 'Such a missal as that is well worth your prayer-books.'

"Mergy read on the back of the volume, _Heures de la Cour_.

"'The binding is handsome,' he said, disdainfully returning the book.

"The Captain smiled, and opening it again handed it to him. Mergy then
read upon the first page: _La vie tres-horrifique du grand Gargantua,
pere de Pantagruel: composee par M. Alcofribas, abstracteur de
Quintessena._"

Thus, in a single page, does M. Merimee place before us a picture of the
times, with their mixture of fanaticism and irreligion, their shameless
political profligacy and private immorality. Bernard de Mergy cannot
prevail with his brother to return to the conventicle: so he accompanies
him to mass--not to pray, but hoping to obtain a glimpse of Madame de
Turgis, whom he has already seen masked in the street, and whose
graceful form and high reputation for beauty have made strong impression
on the imagination of this novice in court gallantries. On entering the
sacristy, they find the preacher, a jolly monk, surrounded by a dozen
young rakes, with whom he bandies jokes more witty than wise.

"'Ah,' cried Beville, 'here is the Captain! Come, George, give us a
text. Father Lubin has promised to preach on any one we propose.'

"'Yes,' said the monk; 'but make haste. _Mort de ma vie!_ I ought to be
in the pulpit already.'

"'Peste!