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Page 9
[Illustration: Overtoppled the milk.]
The farce became known to the whole countryside, and people called
Perrette by the name of "Milkpail" ever after.
Who has never talked wildly? Who has never built castles in Spain? Wise
men as well as milkmaids; sages and fools, all have waking dreams and
find them sweet! Our senses are carried away by some flattering
falsehood, and then wealth, honours, and beauty seem ours to command.
Alone with my thoughts I challenge the bravest. I dethrone monarchs and
the people rejoicing crown me instead, showering diadems upon my head.
Then lo! a little accident happens to bring me back to my senses, and I
am Poor Jack as before.
XI
THE PRIEST AND THE CORPSE
(BOOK VII.--No. 11)
There was a funeral. The dead body was progressing sadly towards its
last resting place; and following rather gladly, was the priest who
meant to bury it as soon as possible.
The dead man, in a leaden coffin, was borne in a coach, and was properly
shrouded in that robe the dead always wear be it summer or winter. As
for the priest, he sat near it, intoning as hard as he could all sorts
of orisons, psalms, lessons, verses, and responses, in the hope that the
more he gave the more would be paid for. "Leave it to me, Mr. Deadman,"
his actions seemed to say. "I'll give you a nice selection; a little of
everything. It's only a matter of fees, you know." And the Rev. John
Crow kept his eye on his silent charge as if he expected some one would
make off with it. "Mr. Deadman," his looks proclaimed, "by you I shall
receive so and so much in money, so and so much in wax candles, and,
possibly, a little more in incidental profits.
On the strength of these calculations he promised himself a quarter-cask
of the best wine the neighbourhood could offer. Beyond that he settled
that a certain very attractive niece of his, as well as his housekeeper
Paquette, should both have new dresses.
Whilst these pleasant and generous thoughts were running in his mind
there came a terrific shock. The car overturned. The Rev. John Crow's
head was broken by the coffin which fell upon him. Alas for the poor
priest! he went to heaven with the parishioner he thought only to bury.
In reality, life over and over again is nothing but the fate of the Rev.
John Crow who counted on his dead, and of Perrette who counted on her
chickens.
XII
THE MAN WHO RAN AFTER FORTUNE AND THE MAN WHO WAITED FOR HER IN HIS BED
(BOOK VII.--No. 12)
Who does not run after Fortune?
I would I were in some spot whence I could watch the eager crowds
rushing from kingdom to kingdom in their vain chase after the daughter
of Chance!
They are indeed but faithful followers of a phantom; for when they think
they have her, lo! she is gone! Poor wretches! One must pity rather than
blame their foolishness. "That man," they say with sanguine voice,
"raised cabbages; and now he is Pope! Are we not as good as he?" Ah!
yes! a hundred times as good perhaps; but what of that? Fortune has no
eyes for all your merit. Besides, is Papacy, after all, worth peace,
which one must leave behind for it? Peace--a treasure that once was the
possession of gods alone--is seldom granted to the votaries of Dame
Fortune. Do not seek her; and then she will seek you. That is the way
with women!
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