other side of the wall. "Breugnon, are you dead yet?" And there were Paillard and Chamaille weeping and wailing, and prepared already to proclaim the virtues of the dear departed.
I crawled slowly from my bed, for my back was still onfoundedly painful, and put my head gently out of the window. "Here he is," said I. "Cuckoo!"
"Colas!" they cried, laughing, while the tears ran down their faces, and I stuck out my tongue at them, telling them that I was not dead yet by a long sight, but if you will believe me those friends actually kept me shut up for ten days longer, till they were perfectly certain that I was entirely recovered. It is only fair to say that they kept me well supplied with bread and water,—I mean the kind that Noah drank,—and they came every day and sat under my window and told me all the news of town and country. When at last I was set free, Chamaille wanted me to go at once and return thanks to St. Roch, who according to him had delivered me from my mortal sickness. I told him I thought the saints that saved me had come out of three quart bottles.
"Well, Colas," said he, "we will split the difference, you come first with me to St. Roch and I will help you afterwards to render due
