ey were rare--and no
doubt to recompense him for so many drawbacks, would call him "Toby
Gold-button." At this innocent little pleasantry, this touch of
affability, Toby grinned from ear to ear, made a deep reverence, and put
the compliment carefully into his pocket, regretting however, no doubt,
that he had nothing more substantial and savoury than this to eat with
his coarse dry bread. Toby was a very useful servitor to the _cure_; he
was always on the alert; fat did not check his rapid movements, and from
the time the Angelus rang in the morning to Vespers in the evening, his
long skinny legs were constantly going. He drew the water, peeled and
washed the onions, blacked the shoes--and how _cure's_ shoes do
shine!--rang the chapel-bell, gathered the acorns for the pig, intoned
the Amen when his master said mass, swept and weeded the garden, snared
the thrushes--which he cooked and eat in secret--and, dressed in a white
surplice, carried the cross and the Viaticum, and accompanied the _cure_
at night when on his way to offer the last consolations of religion to
some dying poacher in the forest. These expeditions were sometimes
across the mountains, and along the dry bed of some torrent, in which,
according to Toby's notion, they would have certainly perished had not
the _Bon Dieu_ been with them.

But we must return to our parson's pig, which after a short skirmish was
caught by Brigitte and her carrotty assistant; and notwithstanding his
cries, his grunts, his gestures of despair and supplication, the inhuman
cook, seizing his head, opened a large vein in his throat, and relieved
him of two pounds of blood; this, with the addition of garlic, shallots,
mint, wild thyme and parsley, was converted into a most savoury and
delicious black-pudding for the _cure_, and his friend, and being
served to their reverences smoking hot on the summit of a pyramid of
yellow cabbage, figured admirably as a small Vesuvius and a centre dish.
The surgical operation over, Brigitte, whose qualifications as a
sempstress were superior, darned up the hole in the neck of the
unfortunate animal, and he was then turned loose until a fresh supply of
black-puddings should be required for a similar occasion. This wretched
pig was never happy: how could he be so? Like Damocles of Syracuse, he
lived in a state of perpetual fever; terror seized him directly he heard
the _cure's_ bell, and seeing in imagination the uplifted knife already
about to glide