The Cure shall wear it--indeed but he shall! Then I shall look like him,
and perhaps get credit for some of his perfections."

"And the Cure?" said Charley.

"The Cure?--the Cure? Tiens, a little of my worldliness will do him
good. There are no contrasts in him. He must wear the coat." He waved
his walking-stick complacently, for he was thinking that the Cure's less
perfect figure would set off his own well as they walked together. "May
I have the honour to keep this as a souvenir?" he added, picking up the
sketch.

"With pleasure," answered Charley. "You do not need it?"

"Not at all."

The Cure looked a little disappointed, and Charley, seeing, immediately
sketched on brown paper the priestly figure in the new-created coat,
a la Rossignol. On this drawing he was a little longer engaged, with the
result that the Cure was reproduced with a singular fidelity--in face,
figure, and expression a personality gentle yet important.

"On my soul, you shall not have it!" said the Seigneur. "But you shall
have me, and I shall have you, lest we both grow vain by looking at
ourselves." He thrust the sketch of himself into the Cure's hands,
and carefully rolled up that of his friend.

The Cure was amazed at this gift of the tailor, and delighted with the
picture of himself--his vanity was as that of a child, without guile or
worldliness. He was better pleased, however, to have the drawing of his