o, the Franciscan monk, who performed the whole
service of the pope.

"Lorenzo," said Ganganelli, with a smile, "let us go down into the
poultry-yard. You must show me the young chickens of which you told me
yesterday. And hear, would it be asking too much to beg of you to bring
my dinner into the garden?"

"I would that you could ask too much," said brother Lorenzo, waddling
after his master, who was descending the stairs leading to the
court-yard. "I really wish, your holiness, that it were asking too
much, for then your dinner would be at least a little more desirable
and heavier to transport! Was such a thing ever heard of? the father of
Christianity keeps a table like that of the poorest begging monk, and is
satisfied with milk, fruit, bread, and vegetables, while the fattest of
capons and ducks are crammed in vain for him, and his cellar is replete
with the most generous wines."

"Well, well, scold not," said Ganganelli, smiling; "have we not for
years felt ourselves well in the Franciscan cloister, it never once
occurring to us to wish ourselves better off! Why should I now quit the
habits of years and accustom myself to other usages? When I was yet a
Franciscan monk, I always had, thanks to our simple manner of living, a
very healthy stomach, and would you have me spoil it now, merely because
I have become pope? It has always remained the same human body, Lorenzo,
and all the rest is only falsehood and fraud! How few years is it since
you and I were in the cloister, and you served the poor Franciscan monk
as a lay brother! You then called me brother Clement, and they all did
the same, and now you no longer call me brother, but holy father! How
can your brother of yesterday be your father of to-day? We are here
alone, Lorenzo; nobody sees or hears us. We would for once cease to be
holy father, and for a quarter of an hour become again brother Clement."

"Ahem! it was not so bad there," simpered Lorenzo. "It was yet very
pleasant in our dear cloister, and I often think, brother, that you were
far happier then than now, when every one falls upon his knees to kiss
your slipper. It must be very dull to be always holy, always so great
and sublime, and always revered and adored!"

"Therefore let us go to our ducks and hens," said the pope. "The people
have made a bugbear of me, before which they fall upon the earth. But
the good animals, who understand nothing of these things, they
cackle and grunt, and gabble at