“Does the gentleman take white whiskey,[G] or well milk?” asked the old man.  “Josephte, bring some milk.”

[Footnote G:  Highwines.]

The daughter darted into the house.—­“There is tea on the stove, Josephte!” Madame called hurriedly inwards, “and bring out some cakes and apples, and perhaps Monsieur would like new honey.—­Be comfortable, sir.”

“Monsieur has come into the parish for the election?” the old man queried politely.

“Only to see what passes,” he replied, accepting the bowl of milk which Josephte tendered him, and a piece of raisin cake from a pile on a blue-pattern plate.—­“What do you think of it?”

But a diversion occurred.  The wife had retired a few moments, and a veteran piano commenced playing, while a spirited boy’s voice struck up a hymn from the services of the Church,—­“O Salutaris Hostia.”  It was her youngest son, whom she had not been able to resist showing off a little.  Chrysler praised the voice, which was excellent, and the boy, attired in a neat, black, knee-breeches suit with white stockings, was proudly brought forward and presented.

The grandfather had the twinkle in his eye of a true country violinist.

“I was going to tell them a story of the old times, sir.  Will you pardon me?” he said, with the twinkle sparkling.

Chrysler protested his own desire to listen.

“We always like to hear about the old times,” said young Le Brun, apologetically.

“It’s about a rascality of Zotique’s, the droll boy, when we were young—­the delectable history of Mouton.  Mouton, the servant of Pere Galibert, who in those times was Cure, was a fat man, of the air of a tallow image.  You know Legros—­the butcher’s son,—­just like that.  If he had had red hair there would have been spontaneous combustion.”

“Someone stole the sacramental wine of Pere Galibert, and everyone except the Pere knew it was Mouton.  Messire would never believe them, though it so angered him he preached fourteen discourses against the thief.  They were eloquent sermons.”

“One Sunday afternoon—­it was about the Day of St. Michel, when we went in to pay the seigneur his rents—­Zotique was at the presbytere with me and his brother the Honorable, and all of us playing cards with Pere Galibert.  Zotique had come down from the city with a new keg of wine for the Sacrament, and they were discussing the disappearance.  Mouton was there, and he says never a word.  “Let it alone,” says Zotique, and he looks around and takes up the inkbottle carelessly from the shelf and goes off to the kitchen and down into the cellar, where he puts away the wine, and then he comes back to us, upstairs.  Mouton disappears in a moment.  Zotique pretends to play,—­but he is calculating the seconds.  Presently he says, “Monsieur le Cure, you and I are too good players.  Let Mouton take my place, and do you play against Benoit and my cousin,” and without waiting for any answer he flies out to the kitchen, and cries sharply:  “Mouton, Messire wants you!” adding, “Quick, quick, tete de Mouton!” Mouton rushes upstairs, brushing his mouth.  There he stands before us, solid as the image of tallow; but his mouth was as black as an oven’s, and his features indistinguishable with ink.”