plaining of hunger as if a wolf were gnawing at their vitals, and now from the straw of the garret, or the earth of the cellar, they have dug out something to feed the beast. Those who bewailed their destitute state the loudest, the worst beggars of them all, found means to tuck their best wine away in some corner. I don't know how it happened, but scarcely had my guest, Fiacre Bolacre, left me, (I went with him to the end of the Jews' quarter,) when I suddenly remembered a small cask of Chablis left by mistake under the dunghill in a good warm place. Of course this upset me dreadfully! You can easily understand that, but when harm is done, if it is well done, one must bear it as best one can, and I bear it well. "Bolacre, my dear nephew, you don't know what nectar you have lost, ah-h! It is not all loss to you though, my good friend, for here's your health in it!"
We all began visiting from house to house, showing what we had found in our cellars, congratulating each other, and winking like the Roman Augurs. We spoke also of our injuries and losses; (losses of our lasses,) and as sometimes the misfortunes of one's neighbors are an amusing consolation, we all inquired solicitously for the health of Vincent Pluviaut's wife. (By an extraordinary chance, after a body of troops has passed
