erformed, until Simon could invent no new ones, and the Devil sat all
day with his hands in his pockets doing nothing.

One day, Simon's confessor came bounding into the room, with the
greatest glee. "My friend," said he, "I have it! Eureka!--I have found
it. Send the Pope a hundred thousand crowns, build a new Jesuit
college at Rome, give a hundred gold candlesticks to St. Peter's; and
tell his Holiness you will double all if he will give you absolution!"

Gambouge caught at the notion, and hurried off a courier to Rome
_ventre a terre_. His Holiness agreed to the request of the petition,
and sent him an absolution, written out with his own fist, and all in
due form.

"Now," said he, "foul fiend, I defy you! arise. Diabolus! your
contract is not worth a jot: the Pope has absolved me, and I am safe
on the road to salvation." In a fervour of gratitude he clasped the
hand of his confessor, and embraced him: tears of joy ran down the
cheeks of these good men.

They heard an inordinate roar of laughter, and there was Diabolus
sitting opposite to them holding his sides, and lashing his tail
about, as if he would have gone mad with glee.

"Why," said he, "what nonsense is this! do you suppose I care about
_that_?" and he tossed the Pope's missive into a corner. "M. l'Abbe
knows," he said, bowing and grinning, "that though the Pope's paper
may pass current _here_, it is not worth twopence in our country. What
do I care about the Pope's absolution? You might just as well be
absolved by your under butler."

"Egad," said the Abbe, "the rogue is right--I quite forgot the fact,
which he points out clearly enough."

"No, no, Gambouge," continued Diabolus, with horrid familiarity, "go
thy ways, old fellow, that _cock won't fight_." And he retired up the
chimney, chuckling at his wit and his triumph. Gambouge heard his tail
scuttling all the way up, as if he had been a sweeper by profession.

Simon was left in that condition of grief in which, according to the
newspapers, cities and nations are found when a murder is committed,
or a lord ill of the gout--a situation, we say, more easy to imagine
than to describe.

To add to his woes, Mrs. Gambouge, who was now first made acquainted
with his compact, and its probable consequences, raised such a storm
about his ears, as made him wish almost that his seven years were
expired. She screamed, she scolded, she swore, she wept, she went into
such fits of hysterics, that poor Gambou