Fortified thus with this their first orison, they throw on their
cassock, and descend to the cellar, to count the bottles, or tap and
taste the barrels of some doubtful vintage. The thorough-bred Burgundian
_cure_, particularly one who has lived and got old and fat in the
solitude of a retired presbytery,--whose rubicund nose reveals his
admiration for the vineyards of his native province, and whose three
chins tell you that with pullets, and venison, and clouted cream he has
lined his scrip,--is certainly one of the most jovial and best of men.

Ask him for indulgences, absolution, masses and prayers for the living
and the dead; he will grant them all. Ask him for his niece in marriage;
ask him to marry you, to baptize you, to bury you; he will do it
all--yes, all for nothing! It is not in his nature to refuse anything.
Ask him for his new cassock, his cane, or his hat, his black silk
stockings, or his silver buckles, and they are yours. No one so ready to
forgive an insult or forget an injury as he. But, by the blood of the
Mirabels, give him not a bottle of bad or sour wine, for he will neither
forget nor forgive it; and above all things, never give him a hint that
it would be well if he gave up his favourite fluid, for be assured, you
would forfeit his friendship for ever. Sooner would he consent to lose a
leg or all his teeth, than give up his life-loved Burgundy! Tell him he
will have an attack of apoplexy; tell him that he will be taken off
suddenly by inflammation, and that water therefore should be his
beverage; he will reply with a smack of his lips, and a castanet noise
with his fingers. "Nonsense, my boy--stuff and rubbish! Pass the wine,
my son; pass it again. Pass the ham, gentlemen. Fill a bumper. Hurrah
for old Burgundy! hurrah for her wines! Confound the pale fluid, and a
fig for the gout!" Such are the ebullitions of his heart in his jovial
moments; and the following lines, which would spoil in the translation,
give a lively picture of them:

"Pour trop bien boire un cure de Bourgogne
De son pauvre oeil se trouvait deferre,
Un docteur vint:--Voici de la besogne
Dit-il, pour plus d'un jour;--Je patienterai!
Ca vous boirez:--Eh bien! soit, je boirai!
Quatre grands mois:--Plutot douze, mon maitre.
Cette tisane!--A moi? hurla le pretre,
_Vade retro!_ Guerir par le poison!
Non, par ma soif! perdons une fenetre,
Puisqu'il le faut, mais--_Sauvons la Maison_."

CHAPTER III.