"Why that he is a writer, and scribbles pamphlets on religion."

"Yes, it is true. I have often seen him at my employer's, with whom he
deals; a bad paymaster, but a jolly fellow!"

"And pretends to be devout, eh?"

"I believe you, my boy--when it is necessary; then he is my Lord
Dumoulin, as large as life. He rolls his eyes, walks with his head on one
side, and his toes turned in; but, when the piece is played out, he slips
away to the balls of which he is so fond. The girls christened him Ninny
Moulin. Add, that he drinks like a fish, and you have the photo of the
cove. All this doesn't prevent his writing for the religious newspapers;
and the saints, whom he lets in even oftener than himself, are ready to
swear by him. You should see his articles and his tracts--only see, not
read!--every page is full of the devil and his horns, and the desperate
fryings which await your impious revolutionists--and then the authority
of the bishops, the power of the Pope--hang it! how could I know it all?
This toper, Ninny Moulin, gives good measure enough for their money!"

"The fact is, that he is both a heavy drinker and a heavy swell. How he
rattled on with little Rose-Pompon in the dance and the full-blown
tulip!"

"And what a rum chap he looked in his Roman helmet and top-boots."

"Rose-Pompon dances divinely, too; she has the poetic twist."

"And don't show her heels a bit!"