At one corner of the refrectory was seen more than an hundred bottles, kept cool by a natural fountain.  We could snuff the aroma of mocha, though in those venerable days none ever drank mocha so early in the morning.

The reverend cellarer for a time laughed at our emotion, and then spoke to us as follows: 

“Gentlemen,” said he, “I would be pleased to keep you company, but as yet I have not kept my mass.  I ought to ask you to drink, but the mountain air dispenses the necessity.  Receive, then, what we offer you.  I must to matins.”

He went to matins.

We did our best to eat up the abbe’s dinner, but could not.  People from Sirius might, but it was too much for us.

After dinner we dispersed.  I crept into a good bed until mass; like the heroes of Rocroy, who slept until the battle began.

I was aroused by a great fat friar, who had nearly pulled my arm out of its socket, and went to the church where I found all at their posts.

We played a symphony at the offertory and sung a motet at the elevation, concluding with four wind instruments.

We contrived, in spite of the jests usually expended on amateurs, to get out of the difficulty very well.

We received with great benignity the praises heaped on us, and having received the abbot’s thanks went to the table.

The dinner was such as people used to eat in the fifteenth century.  There were few superfluities, but the choice of dishes was admirable.  We had plain, honest, substantial stews, good meats, and dishes of vegetables, which made one regret they were not more general.

The dessert was the more remarkable, as it was composed of fruits not produced at that altitude.  The gardens of Machuras, of Morflent and other places had contributed.

There was no want of liqueurs, but coffee needs a particular reference.

It was clear, perfumed and strong, but was not served in what are called tasses on the Seine, but in huge bowls, into which the monks dipped their lips and smacked them with delight.

After dinner we went to vespers, and between the psalms executed antiphones I prepared for the purpose.  That style of music was then fashionable.  I cannot say if mine was good or bad.

Our day being over, my orchestra was enabled to look and walk around.  On my return the abbe said, “I am about to leave you, and will suffer you to finish the night.  I do not think my presence at all importunate to the fathers; but I wish them to do as they please.”

When the abbot had left, the monks drew more closely together, and a thousand jokes were told, not the less funny because the world knows nothing of them.

About nine a glorious supper was served, long in advance of the dinner.

They laughed, sang, told stories, and one of the fathers recited some very good verses he had himself composed.

At last a monk arose, and said, “Father Cellarer, what have you to say?”