“What proof have you of this?” said the president.

“I am about to tell you,” replied Patience.  “Having learnt from the landlady at Crevant, to whom I have occasionally been of some assistance, that the two Trappists used to lunch at her tavern from time to time, as I have said, I went and took up my abode about half a league from here, in a hermitage known as Le Trou aux Fades, situated in the middle of the woods and open to the first comer, furniture and all.  It is a cave in the rock, containing a seat in the shape of a big stone and nothing else.  I lived there for a couple of days on roots and bits of bread that they occasionally brought me from the tavern.  It is against my principles to live in a tavern.  On the third day the landlady’s little boy came and informed me that the two monks were about to sit down to a meal.  I hastened back, and hid myself in a cellar which opens into the garden.  The door of this cellar is quite close to the apple-tree under which these gentlemen were taking luncheon in the open air.  John was sober; the other was eating like a Carmelite and drinking like a Franciscan.  I could hear and see everything at my ease.

“‘There must be an end of this,’ Antony was saying—­I easily recognised the man when I saw him drink and heard him swear—­’I am tired of playing this game for you.  Hide me away with the Carmelites or I shall make a row.’

“’And what row can you make that will not bring you to the gallows, you clumsy fool!’ answered John.  ’It is very certain that you will not set foot inside the monastery.  I don’t want to find myself mixed up in a criminal trial; for they would discover what you are in an hour or two.’

“’And why, I should like to know?  You make them all believe that you are a saint!’

“’Because I know how to behave like a saint; whereas you—­you behave like a fool.  Why, you can’t stop swearing for an hour, and you would be breaking all the mugs after dinner!’

“‘I say, Nepomucene,’ rejoined the other, ’do you fancy that you would get off scot-free if I were caught and tried?’

“‘Why not?’ answered the Trappist.  ’I had no hand in your folly, nor did I advise anything of this kind.’

“‘Ha! ha! my fine apostle!’ cried Antony, throwing himself back in his chair in a fit of laughter.  ’You are glad enough about it, now that it is done.  You were always a coward; and had it not been for me you would never have thought of anything better than getting yourself made a Trappist, to ape devotion and afterward get absolution for the past, so as to have a right to draw a little money from the “Headbreakers” of Sainte-Severe.  By Jove! a mighty fine ambition, to give up the ghost under a monk’s cowl after leading a pretty poor life and only tasting half its sweets, let alone hiding like a mole!  Come, now; when they have hung my pretty Bernard, and the lovely Edmonde is dead, and when the old neck-breaker has given back his big bones