etreats,
where the refractory clergy gathered together clandestinely little
troops of the faithful. The police of the Sections, vigilant and
suspicious as they were, kept their eyes shut to these hidden folds,
from fear of the exasperated flock and moved by some lingering
veneration for holy things. The Barnabite made his farewells to his host
who had great difficulty in persuading him to come back to dine, and
only succeeded in the end by promising that the cheer would be neither
plentiful nor delicate.

Brotteaux, when left to himself, kindled a little earthenware stove;
then, while he busied himself with preparations for the Monk's and the
Epicurean's meal, he read in his Lucretius and meditated on the
conditions of human beings.

As a sage and a philosopher, he was not surprised that these wretched
creatures, silly playthings of the forces of nature, found themselves
more often than not in absurd and painful situations; but he was weak
and illogical enough to believe that the Revolutionaries were more
wicked and more foolish than other men, thereby falling into the error
of the metaphysician. At the same time he was no Pessimist and did not
hold that life was altogether bad. He admired Nature in several of her
departments, especially the celestial mechanism and physical love, and
accommodated himself to the labours of life, pending the arrival of the
day, which could not be far off, when he would have nothing more either
to fear or to desire.

He coloured some dancing-dolls with painstaking care and made a Zerline
that was very like Rose Thevenin. He liked the girl and his Epicureanism
highly approved of the arrangement of the atoms of which she was
composed.

These tasks occupied him till the Barnabite's return.

"Father," he announced, as he opened the door to admit him, "I told you,
you remember, that our fare would be meagre. We have nothing but
chestnuts. The more reason, therefore, they should be well seasoned."

"Chestnuts!" cried Pere Longuemare, smiling, "there is no more delicious
dish. My father, sir, was a poor gentleman of the Limousin, whose whole
estate consisted of a pigeon-cote in ruins, an orchard run wild and a
clump of chestnut-trees. He fed himself, his wife and his twelve
children on big green chestnuts, and we were all strong and sturdy. I
was the youngest and the most turbulent; my father used to declare, by
way of jesting, he would have to send me to America to be a
filibuster.... Ah