outcast. I said this to my father, who spit his curse in my face; to my mother, who set to weeping and chattering, poor old lady, like yonder fagot on the and-irons.

Long live mirth! I am a real Bic�tre. Waitress, my dear, more wine. I have still the wherewithal to pay. I want no more Sur�ne wine. It distresses my throat. I’d as lief, corboeuf! gargle my throat with a basket.”

Meanwhile, the rabble applauded with shouts of laughter; and seeing that the tumult was increasing around him, the scholar cried, — .

“Oh! what a fine noise! Populi debacchantis populosa debacchatio!” Then he began to sing, his eye swimming in ecstasy, in the tone of a canon intoning vespers,Quoe cantica! quoe organa! quoe cantilenoe! quoe meloclioe