Now they
have cleared his face of its plumage, and a cry of disgust and shame
hails the disclosure. Yes, this curious masker is no other than a
reverend abbe, a young canon of the cathedral of Mans! 'This is too
much--it is scandalous--it is disgraceful. The church must be respected,
the sacred order must not descend to such frivolities.' The people,
lately laughing, are now furious at the shameless abbe and not his
liveliest wit can save him; they threaten and cry shame on him, and in
terror of his life, he beats his way through the crowd, and takes to his
heels. The mob follows, hooting and savage. The little man is nimble;
those well-shaped legs--_qui ont si bien danse_--stand him in good
stead. Down the streets, and out of the town go hare and hounds. The
pursuers gain on him--a bridge, a stream filled with tall reeds, and
delightfully miry, are all the hope of refuge he sees before him. He
leaps gallantly from the bridge in among the oziers, and has the joy of
listening to the disappointed curses of the mob, when reaching the
stream, their quarry is nowhere to be seen. The reeds conceal him, and
there he lingers till nightfall, when he can issue from his
lurking-place, and escape from the town.
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