The sexton was a perfect character in his way; old, shrewd, communicative, and civil.  There were several confessionals.  “What—­you confess here pretty much?” “Yes, Sir; but chiefly females, and among them many widows.”  I had said nothing to provoke this ungallant reply.  “In respect to the sacrament, what is the proportion between the communicants, as to sex?” “Sir, there are one hundred women to twelve men.”  I wish I could say that this disproportion were confined to France.

Quitting this heavy and ugly, but large and commodious fabric, I sought the inn and dinner.  The cook was in every respect a learned professor in his art, and the produce of his skill was equally excellent and acceptable.  I had scarcely finished my repast, and the Gruyere cheese and nuts yet lingered upon the table, when the soft sounds of an organ, accompanied by a youthful voice, saluted my ears in a very pleasing manner.  “C’est LE PAUVRE PETIT SAVOYARD, Monsieur”—­exclaimed the waiter—­“Vous allez entendre un air touchant!  Ah, le pauvre petit!”—­“Comment ca?” “Monsieur, il n’a ni pere ni mere; mais pour le chant—­oh Dieu, il n’y a personne qui chante comme le pauvre petit Savoyard!” I was well disposed to hear the song, and to admit the truth of the waiter’s observation.  The little itinerant stopped opposite the door, and sung the following air:—­

Bon jour, Bon soir.

  Je peindrai sans detour

Tout l’emploi de ma vie: 
C’est de dire bon jour
Et bon soir tour-a-tour.
Bon Jour a mon amie,
Lorsque je vais la voir. 
Mais au fat qui m’ennuie,

                        Bon soir.

  Bon jour franc troubadour,

Qui chantez la bombance;
La paix et les beaux jours;
Bacchus et les amours. 
Qu’un rimeur en demence
Vienne avec vous s’asseoir,
Pour chanter la Romance,

                        Bon soir.

  Bon jour, mon cher voisin,

Chez vous la soif m’entraine: 
Bonjour—­si votre vin
Est de Beaune ou du Rhin;
Mon gosier va sans peine
Lui servir d’entonnoir;
Mais s’il est de Surene,

                        Bon soir.

I know not how it was, but had the “petit Savoyard” possessed the cultivated voice of a chorister, I could not have listened to his notes with half the satisfaction with which I dwelt upon his history, as stated by the waiter.  He had no sooner concluded and made his bow, than I bought the slender volume from which his songs had been chanted, and had a long gossip with him.  He slung his organ upon his back, and “ever and anon” touching his hat, expressed his thankfulness, as much for the interest I had taken in his welfare, as for the trifling piece of silver which I slipt into his hand at parting.  Meanwhile all the benches, placed on the outsides of the houses,