Chicot the Jester

CHAPTER XVI.
THE MARRIAGE

“The two men approached the window. We gently opened it a little way, and heard one say, ‘Are you sure it is here?’ ‘Yes, monseigneur, quite sure,’ said the other. ‘It is the fifth house from the corner of the Rue St. Paul.’ ‘And you are sure of the key?’ ‘I took the pattern of the lock.’ I seized Gertrude’s arm in terror. ‘And once inside’ he went on, ‘the servant will admit us; your highness has in your pocket a golden key as good as this one.’ ‘Open, then.’ We heard the key turn in the lock but all at once the ambushed men rushed forward, crying, ‘a mort! a mort!’ I could not understand this, only I saw that unexpected help had come to us, and I fell on my knees, thanking Heaven. But the prince had only to name himself, when every sword went back into the scabbard, and every foot drew back.”

“Yes, yes,” said Bussy, “it was for me they came, not for the prince.”

“However, this attack caused the prince to retire, and the five gentlemen went back to their hiding-place. It was evident that the danger was over for that night, but we were too unquiet to go to bed. Soon we saw a man on horseback appear, and then the five gentlemen immediately rushed on him. You know the rest, as the gentleman was yourself.”

“On the contrary, madame, I know only that I fought and then fainted.”

“It is useless to say,” continued Diana, with a blush, “the interest that we took in the combat so unequal, but so valiantly sustained. Each blow drew from us a shudder, a cry, and a prayer. We saw your horse fall, and we thought you lost, but it was not so; the brave Bussy merited his reputation. At last, surrounded, menaced on all sides, you retreated like a lion, facing your foes, and came to lean against our door; the same idea came to both of us, to go down and open to you, and we ran towards the staircase; but we had barricaded the door, and it took us some minutes to move the furniture, and as we arrived on the stairs, we heard the door shut. We stopped, and looked at each other, wondering who had entered. Soon we heard steps, and a man appeared, who tottered, threw up his arms, and fell on the first step. It was evident that he was not pursued, but had put the door, so luckily left open by the duke, between him and his adversaries. In any case we had nothing to fear; it was he who needed our help. Gertrude ran and fetched a lamp, and we found you had fainted, and carried you to the bed. Gertrude had heard of a wonderful cure made by a young doctor in the Rue Beautrellis, and she offered to go and fetch him. ‘But,’ said I, ‘he might betray us.’ ‘I will take precautions’ said she. She took money and the key, and I remained alone near you, and – praying for you.”

“Alas!” said Bussy, “I did not know all my happiness, madame.”

“In a quarter of an hour Gertrude returned, bringing the young doctor with his eyes bandaged.”

“Yes, it was at that moment I recovered my senses and saw your portrait, and thought I saw you enter,” said Bussy.

“I did so; my anxiety was stronger than my prudence. The doctor examined your wound and answered for your life.”

“All that remained in my mind,” said Bussy, “like a dream, and yet something told me,” added he, laying his hand upon his heart, “that it was real.”

“When the surgeon had dressed your wound, he drew from his pocket a little bottle containing a red liquor, of which he put some drops on your lips. He told me it was to counteract the fever and produce sleep, and said that the only thing then was to keep you quiet. Gertrude then bandaged his eyes again, and took him back to the Rue Beautrellis, but she fancied he counted the steps.”

“He did so, madame.”

“This supposition frightened us. We feared he would betray us, and we wished to get rid of every trace of the hospitality we had shown you. I gathered up my courage; it was two o’clock, and the streets were deserted; Gertrude was strong, and I aided her, and between us we carried you to the Temple. Luckily we met no one, but when we returned, I fainted with emotion.”

“Oh! madame!” cried Bussy, “how can I ever repay you for what you have done for me?”

There was a moment’s silence, and they heard the clock of St. Catherine’s church strike. “Two o’clock,” cried Diana, “and you here!”

“Oh! madame, do not send me away without telling me all. Suppose that God had given you a brother, and tell this brother what he can do for his sister.”

“Alas! nothing now; it is too late.”

“What happened the next day?” said Bussy; “what did you do on that day when I thought constantly of you, without feeling sure if you were not a vision of my delirium?”

“During that day, Gertrude went out, and met Aurilly. He was more pressing than ever. He said nothing of the night before, but asked for an interview for his master. Gertrude appeared to consent, but she asked until the Wednesday – that is to-day – to decide. Aurilly promised that his master would wait until then. That evening, M. de Monsoreau returned. We told him all, except about you.

“‘Yes,’ said he, ‘I heard of all this. Then he has a key.’ ‘Can we not change the lock?’ ‘He will get another key.’ ‘Put on bolts? ‘He will come with ten men and force the door. ‘But the event which was to give you full power over him?’ ‘Is postponed indefinitely.’ I stood in despair. ‘Monsieur,’ said I, ‘the duke has promised to wait till Wednesday; I ask you to wait till Tuesday.’ ‘Tuesday evening I will be here, madame,’ and without another word he went out. I followed him with my eyes, but instead of going away he stood in the corner by the Hôtel des Tournelles, and seemed determined to watch me all night. Every proof of devotion he gave me was like a knife in my heart. The two days passed rapidly, but what I suffered it is impossible to describe. When Tuesday evening came, I felt exhausted, and all emotion seemed dead within me.

“Gertrude went to the window. ‘Madame,’ cried she, ‘four men! I see four men! They approach, they open the door – they enter! It is, doubtless, the duke and his followers.’ For an answer, I drew my poniard, and placed it near me on the table. ‘See,’ said I. An instant after, Gertrude returned, ‘It is the count,’ said she. He entered. ‘Gertrude tells me,’ said he, ‘that you took me for the duke, and were ready to kill yourself.’ It was the first time I had ever seen him moved. Gertrude was wrong to tell you,’ said I. ‘You know that I am not alone.’ ‘Gertrude saw four men.’ ‘You know who they are?’ ‘I presume one is a priest, and the others witnesses.’ ‘Then, you are ready to become my wife?’ ‘It was so agreed; only I stipulated that except in an urgent case, I would only marry you in the presence of my father.’ ‘I remember; but do you not think the case urgent?’ ‘Yes, and the priest may marry us, but, until I have seen my father, I will be your wife only in name.’

“The count frowned, and bit his lips. ‘I do not wish to coerce you,’ said he; ‘you are free; but look here.’ I went to the window, and saw a man wrapped in a cloak, who seemed trying to get into the house.”

“Oh! mon dieu!” cried Bussy; “and this was yesterday?”

“Yes, about nine o’clock. Presently, another man, with a lantern, joined him. I thought it was the duke and his followers.

“‘Now,’ said, M de Monsoreau, ‘shall I go or stay?’ I hesitated a moment, in spite of my father’s letter and of my given word, but those two men there – ”

“Oh! unhappy that I am,” cried Bussy, “it was I and Rémy, the young doctor.”

“You!” cried Diana.

“Yes, I; I, who, more and more convinced of the reality of my dream, sought for the house where I had been, and the woman, or rather angel, who had appeared to me. Oh! I am unfortunate. Then,” continued he, after a pause, “you are his wife?”

“Since yesterday.”

There was a fresh silence.

“But,” said Diana at last, “how did you enter this house?”

Bussy silently showed his key.

“A key! where did you get it?”

“Had not Gertrude promised the prince to enter tonight? He had seen M. de Monsoreau here, and also myself, and fearing a snare, sent me to find out.”

“And you accepted this mission?”

“It was my only method of penetrating to you. Will you reproach me for having sought at once the greatest joy and the greatest grief of my life?”

“Yes, for it is better that you should see me no more, and forget me.”

“No, madame; God has brought me to you, to deliver you from the toils in which your enemies have taken you. I vow my life to you. You wish for news of your father?”

“Oh, yes! for, in truth, I know not what has become of him.”

“Well, I charge myself with finding out; only think of him who henceforth will live but for you.”

“But this key?”

“This key I restore to you, for I will receive it only from your hands; but I pledge you my word as a gentleman, that never sister could trust in a brother more devoted and respectful.”

“I trust to the word of the brave Bussy. Here, monsieur,” and she gave back the key.

“Madame, in a fortnight we will know more;” and, saluting Diana with a respect mingled with love and sadness, Bussy took leave. Diana listened to his retreating steps with tears in her eyes.

CHAPTER XVII.
HOW HENRI III. TRAVELED, AND HOW LONG IT TOOK HIM TO GET FROM PARIS TO FONTAINEBLEAU

The sun, which shone four or five hours after the events which we have just recorded had taken place, saw, by his pale light, Henri III. set off for Fontainebleau, where a grand chase was projected. A crowd of gentlemen, mounted on good horses and wrapped in their fur cloaks, then a number of pages, after them lackey, and then Swiss, followed the royal litter. This litter, drawn by eight mules richly caparisoned, was a large machine, about fifteen feet long and eight wide, on four wheels, furnished inside with cushions and curtains of silk brocade. In difficult places they substituted for the mules an indefinite number of oxen.

This machine contained Henri III., his doctor, and his chaplain, Chicot, four of the king’s favorites, a pair of large dogs, and a basket of little ones, which the king held on his knees, and which was suspended from his neck by a golden chain. From the roof hung a gilded cage containing turtle doves, quite white, with a black ring round their necks. Sometimes the collection was completed by the presence of two or three apes. Thus this litter was commonly termed the Noah’s Ark.

Quelus and Maugiron employed themselves with plaiting ribbons, a favorite diversion of that time; and Chicot amused himself by making anagrams on the names of all the courtiers. Just as they passed the Place Maubert, Chicot rushed out of the litter, and went to kneel down before a house of good appearance.

“Oh!” cried the king, “if you kneel, let it be before the crucifix in the middle of the street, and not before the house. What do you mean by it?”

But Chicot, without attending, cried out in a loud voice:

“Mon Dieu! I recognize it, I shall always recognize it – the house where I suffered! I have never prayed for vengeance on M. de Mayenne, author of my martyrdom, nor on Nicholas David, his instrument. No; Chicot is patient, Chicot can wait, although it is now six years that this debt has been running on, and in seven years the interest is doubled. May, then, my patience last another year, so that instead of fifty blows of a stirrup-leather which I received in this house by the orders of this assassin of a Lorraine prince, and which drew a pint of blood, I may owe a hundred blows and two pints of blood! Amen, so be it!”

“Amen!” said the king.

Chicot then returned to the litter, amidst the wondering looks of the spectators.

“Why, Chicot, what does all this mean?” said the king.

“Sire, it means that Chicot is like the fox – that he licks the stones where his blood fell, until against those very stones he crushes the heads of those who spilt it.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Sire, in that house lived a girl whom Chicot loved, a good and charming creature, and a lady. One evening when he went to see her, a certain prince, who had also fallen in love with her, had him seized and beaten, so that Chicot was forced to jump out of window; and as it was a miracle that he was not killed, each time he passes the house he kneels down and thanks God for his escape.”

“You were, then, well beaten, my poor Chicot?”

“Yes, sire, and yet not as much as I wished.”

“Why – for your sins?”

“No, for those of M. de Mayenne.”

“Oh! I understand; your intention is to render to Cæsar – ”

“Not to Cæsar, sire – Cæsar is the great general, the valiant warrior, the eldest brother, who wishes to be king of France. No, you must settle with him; pay your debts, and I will pay mine.”

Henri did not like to hear his cousin of Guise spoken of, and this made him serious. It was three o’clock in the afternoon when they arrived at Juvisy and the great hotel of the “Cour de France.”

Chicot, looking out of the litter, saw at the door of the hotel several men wrapped in cloaks. In the midst of them was a short, stout person, whose large hat almost covered his face. They went in quickly on seeing the litter, but not before the look of this person had had time to excite Chicot’s attention. Therefore he jumped out, and asking a page for his horse, which was being led, let the royal litter go on to Essones, where the king was to sleep, while he remained behind, and, cautiously peeping in through a window, saw the men whom he had noticed sitting inside. He then entered the hotel, went into the opposite room, asked for a bottle of wine, and placed himself so that, although he could not be seen, no one could pass by without his seeing them.

“Ah!” said he to himself, “shall I be forced to make my payment sooner than I expected?”

Soon Chicot found that by keeping the door open he could both see into the room and hear what was said.

“Gentlemen,” said the short fat man to his companions, “I think it is time to set out; the last lackey of the cortege is out of sight, and I believe now that the road is safe.”

“Perfectly so, monseigneur,” replied a voice which made Chicot tremble, and which came from the mouth of a person as tall as the other was short, as pale as he was red, and as obsequious as he was arrogant.

“Ah! M. Nicolas,” said Chicot, “tu quoque, that is good. It will be odd if I let you slip this time!”

Then the short man came out, paid the bill, and, followed by the others, took the road to Paris. Chicot followed them at a distance. They entered by the Porte St. Antoine, and entered the Hôtel Guise. Chicot waited outside a full hour, in spite of cold and hunger. At last the door reopened, but, instead of seven cavaliers wrapped in their cloaks, seven monks came out, with their hoods over their faces, and carrying immense rosaries.

“Oh!” said Chicot, “is, then, the Hôtel Guise so embalmed in sanctity that wolves change into lambs only by entering it? This becomes more and more interesting.”

And he followed the monks as he had followed the cavaliers, for he believed them to be the same. The monks passed over the bridge of Notre Dame, crossed the city and the petit pont, and went up the Rue St. Geneviève.

“Oh!” said Chicot, as he passed the house where he had kneeled in the morning, “are we returning to Fontainebleau? In that case I have made a round.”

However, the monks stopped at the door of the Abbey of St. Geneviève, in the porch of which stood another monk, who examined everyone’s hand.

“Why,” said Chicot, “it seems that to be admitted to night into the abbey one must have clean hands!”

Then he saw, with astonishment, monks appear from every street leading to the abbey, some alone, some walking in pairs, but all coming to the abbey.

“Ah!” said Chicot, “is there a general chapter at the abbey to-night? I have never seen one, and I should like it much.”

The monks entered, showing their hands, or something in them, and passed on.

“I should like to go also,” thought Chicot; “but for that I want two things – a monk’s robe, for I see no layman here, and then this mysterious thing which they show to the porter, for certainly they show something. Ah, Brother Gorenflot, if you were here!”

The monks continued to arrive, till it seemed as if half Paris had taken the frock.

“There must be something extraordinary to-night,” thought Chicot. “I will go and find Gorenflot at the Corne d’Abondance; he will be at supper.”

CHAPTER XVIII.
BROTHER GORENFLOT

To the beautiful day had succeeded a beautiful evening, only, as the day had been cold, the evening was still colder. It was one of those frosts which make the lights in the windows of an hotel look doubly tempting. Chicot first entered the dining-room, and looked around him, but not finding there the man he sought for, went familiarly down to the kitchen. The master of the establishment was superintending a frying-pan full of whitings. At the sound of Chicot’s step he turned.

“Ah! it is you, monsieur,” said he, “good evening, and a good appetite to you.”

“Thanks for the wish, but you know I cannot bear to eat alone.”

“If necessary, monsieur, I will sup with you.”

“Thanks, my dear host, but though I know you to be an excellent companion, I seek for some one else.”

“Brother Gorenflot, perhaps?”

“Just so; has he begun supper?”

“No, not yet; but you must make haste nevertheless, for in five minutes he will have finished.”

“Monsieur!” cried Chicot, striking his head.

“Monsieur, it is Friday, and the beginning of Lent.”

“Well, and what then?” said Chicot, who did not hold a high opinion of Gorenflot’s religious austerity.

Boutromet shrugged his shoulders. “Decidedly, something must be wrong,” said Chicot, “five minutes for Gorenflot’s supper! I am destined to see wonders to-day.”

Chicot then advanced towards a small private room, pushed open the door, and saw within the worthy monk, who was turning negligently on his plate a small portion of spinach, which he tried to render more savory by the introduction into it of some cheese. Brother Gorenflot was about thirty-eight years of age and five feet high. However, what he wanted in height, he made up in breadth, measuring nearly three feet in diameter from shoulder to shoulder, which, as everyone knows, is equal to nine feet of circumference. Between these Herculean shoulders rose a neck of which the muscles stood out like cords. Unluckily this neck partook of the same proportions; it was short and thick, which at any great emotion might render Brother Gorenflot liable to apoplexy. But knowing this, perhaps, he never gave way to emotions, and was seldom so disturbed as he was when Chicot entered his room.

“Ah, my friend! what are you doing?” cried Chicot, looking at the vegetables and at a glass filled with water just colored with a few drops of wine.

“You see, my brother, I sup,” replied Gorenflot in a powerful voice.

“You call that supper, Gorenflot! Herbs and cheese?”

“We are in the beginning of Lent, brother; we must think of our souls,” replied Gorenflot, raising his eyes to heaven.

Chicot looked astounded; he had so often seen Gorenflot feast in a different manner during Lent.

“Our souls!” said he; “and what the devil have herbs and water to do with them?”

“We are forbidden to eat meat on Wednesdays and Fridays.”

“But when did you breakfast?”

“I have not breakfasted, my brother,” said the monk.

“Not breakfasted! Then what have you done?”

“Composed a discourse,” said Gorenflot proudly.

“A discourse, and what for?”

“To deliver this evening at the abbey.”

“That is odd.”

“And I must be quick and go there, or perhaps my audience will grow impatient.”

Chicot thought of the infinite number of monks he had seen going to the abbey, and wondered why Gorenflot, whom certainly he had never thought eloquent, had been chosen to preach before M. de Mayenne and the numerous assemblage. “When are you to preach?” said he.

“At half-past nine.”

“Good; it is still a quarter to nine, you can give me a few minutes. Ventre de biche! we have not dined together for a week.”

“It is not our fault, but I know that your duties keep you near our King Henry III., while my duties fill up my time.”

“Yes, but it seems to me that is so much the more reason why we should be merry when we do meet.”

“Yes, I am merry,” said Gorenflot, with a piteous look, “but still I must leave you.”

“At least, finish your supper.”

Gorenflot looked at the spinach, and sighed, then at the water, and turned away his head.

“Do you remember,” said Chicot, “the little dinner at the Porte Montmartre, where, while the king was scourging himself and others, we devoured a teal from the marshes of the Grauge-Batelière, with a sauce made with crabs, and we drank that nice Burgundy wine; what do you call it?”

“It is a wine of my country, La Romanée.”

“Yes, yes, it was the milk you sucked as a baby, worthy son of Noah.”

“It was good,” said Gorenflot, “but there is better.”

“So says Claude Boutromet, who pretends that he has in his cellar fifty bottles to which that is paltry.”

“It is true.”

“True, and yet you drink that abominable red water. Fie!” And Chicot, taking the glass, threw the contents out of window.

“There is a time for all, my brother,” said Gorenflot, “and wine is good when one has only to praise God after it, but water is better when one has a discourse to pronounce.”

“Opinions differ, for I, who have also a discourse to pronounce, am going to ask for a bottle of Romanée. What do you advise me to take with it, Gorenflot?”

“Not these herbs, they are not nice.” Chicot, seizing the plate, threw it after the water, and then cried, “Maître Claude.”

The host appeared.

“M. Claude, bring me two bottles of your Romanée, which you call so good.”

“Why two bottles,” said Gorenflot, “as I do not drink it?”

“Oh! if you did I would have four or six, but if I drink alone, two will do for me.”

“Indeed; two bottles are reasonable, and if you eat no meat with it, your confessor will have nothing to reproach you with.”

“Oh, of course not; meat on a Friday in Lent!” And going to the larder, he drew out a fine capon.

“What are you doing, brother?” said Gorenflot, following his movements with interest.

“You see I am taking this carp.”

“Carp!” cried Gorenflot.

“Yes, a carp,” said Chicot, showing him the tempting bird.

“And since when has a carp had a beak?”

“A beak! do you see a beak? I only see a nose.”

“And wings?”

“Fins!”

“Feathers?”

“Scales, my dear Gorenflot, you are drunk.”

“Drunk! I, who have only eaten spinach and drunk water?”

“Well, your spinach has overloaded your stomach, and your water has mounted to your head.”

“Parbleu! here is our host, he shall decide.”

“So be it, but first let him uncork the wine.”

M. Boutromet uncorked a bottle and gave a glass to Chicot. Chicot swallowed and smacked his lips.

“Ah!” said he, “I have a bad memory, I cannot remember if it be better or worse than that at Montmartre. Here, my brother, enlighten me,” said he, giving a little to the monk, who was looking on with eager eyes.

Gorenflot took the glass, and drank slowly the liquor it contained.

“It is the same wine,” said he, “but I had too little to tell whether it be better or worse.”

“But I want to know, and if you had not a sermon to preach, I would beg you to drink a little more.”

“If it will give you pleasure, my brother.”

Chicot half filled the monk’s glass. Gorenflot drank it with great gravity.

“I pronounce it better,” said he.

“You flatter our host.”

“A good drinker ought, at the first draught, to recognize the wine, at the second, the quality, and, at the third, the age.”

“Oh! I should like to know the age of this wine.”

“Give me a few drops more, and I will tell you.”

Chicot filled his glass. He drank it off, and then said, “1561.”

“Right,” cried Claude Boutromet, “it was 1561.”

“Brother Gorenflot,” cried Chicot, “they have beatified men at Rome who were worth less than you.”

“A little habit,” said Gorenflot, modestly.

“And talent; for I flatter myself I have the habit, and I could not do it. But what are you about?”

“Going to my assembly.”

“Without eating a piece of my carp?”

“Ah I true; you know still less of eating than drinking. M. Boutromet, what is the name of this animal?”

The innkeeper looked astonished. “A capon,” said he.

“A capon!” cried Chicot, with an air of consternation.

“Yes, and a fine one.”

“Well!” said Gorenflot, triumphantly.

“Well I it seems I was wrong, but as I wish to eat this capon, and yet not sin, be so kind, brother, as to throw a few drops of water upon it, and christen it a carp.”

“Ah! ah!”

“Yes, I pray you, save me from mortal sin.”

“So be it,” cried Gorenflot, “but there is no water.”

“Oh! the intention is all; baptize it with wine, my brother; the animal will be less Catholic but quite as good.” And Chicot refilled the monk’s glass. The first bottle was finished.

“In the name of Bacchus, Momus, and Comus, trinity of the great saint Pantagruel, I baptize thee, carp,” said Gorenflot.

“Now,” said Chicot, “to the health of the newly baptized; may it be cooked to perfection, and may M. Boutromet add to the excellent qualities which it has received from nature.”

“To his health,” cried Gorenflot, interrupting a hearty laugh to swallow his wine.

“M. Claude, put this carp at once on the spit, cover it with fresh butter, with shalots in it, and put some toast in the frying-pan, and serve it hot.” Gorenflot approved with a motion of his head.

“Now, M. Boutromet, some sardines and a tunny fish, meanwhile; it is Lent, and I wish to make a maigre dinner. And let me have two more bottles of wine.”

The smell of the cookery began to mount to the brain of the monk. Yet he made a last effort to rise.

“Then you leave me, after all?” said Chicot.

“I must,” said Gorenflot, raising his eyes to heaven.

“It is very imprudent of you to go to pronounce a discourse fasting.”

“Why?”

“Because your strength will fail you. Galen has said it. Pulmo hominis facile deficit.”

“Alas! yes.”

“You see, then?”

“Luckily, I have zeal.”

“Ah! but that is not enough; I advise you to eat some sardines, and drink a little of this nectar.”

“A single sardine, then, and one glass.” Chicot gave him the sardine, and passed him the bottle. He himself took care to keep sober.

“I feel myself less feeble,” said Gorenflot.

“Oh! you must feel quite strong before you go, and so I advise you to eat the fins of the carp.” And as they entered with the pullet, Chicot cut off a leg and thigh, which Gorenflot soon despatched.

“What a delicious fish!” said Gorenflot. Chicot cut off the other leg and gave it to Gorenflot, while he ate the wings.

“And famous wine,” said he, uncorking another bottle.

Having once commenced, Gorenflot could not stop. His appetite was enormous; he finished the bird, and then called to Boutromet. “M. Claude,” said he, “I am hungry; did you not offer me omelet just now?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, bring it.”

“In five minutes.”

“Ah!” said Gorenflot, “now I feel in force; if the omelet were here, I could eat it at a mouthful, and I swallow this wine at a gulp.” And he swallowed a quarter of the third bottle.

“Ah! you were ill before.”

“I was foolish, friend; that cursed discourse weighed on my mind; I have been thinking of it for days.”

“It ought to be magnificent.”

“Splendid.”

“Tell me some of it while we wait for the omelet.”

“No, no; not a sermon at table.”

“We have beautiful discourses at the court, I assure you.”

“About what?”

“About virtue.”

“Ah! yes, he is a very virtuous man, our King Henri III.”

“I do not know if he be virtuous; but I know that I have never seen anything there to make me blush.”

“You blush!”

At this moment M. Boutromet entered with the omelet and two more bottles.

“Bring it here,” cried the monk, with a smile, which showed his thirty-two teeth.

“But, friend, I thought you had a discourse to pronounce.”

“It is here,” cried Gorenflot, striking his forehead.

“At half-past nine.”

“I lied; it was ten.”

“Ten! I thought the abbey shut at nine.”

“Let it shut; I have a key.”

“A key of the abbey!”

“Here, in my pocket.”

“Impossible; I know the monastic rules. They would not give the key to a simple monk.”

“Here it is,” said Gorenflot, showing a piece of money.

“Oh, money! you corrupt the porter to go in when you please, wretched sinner! But what strange money!”

“An effigy of the heretic, with a hole through his heart.”

“Yes, I see it is a tester of the Béarn king’s, and here is a hole.”

“A blow with a dagger. Death to the heretic. He who does it is sure of Paradise.”

“He is not yet drunk enough;” so thought Chicot; and he filled his glass again.

“To the mass!” cried Gorenflot, drinking it off.

Chicot remembered the porter looking at the hands of the monks, and said —

“Then, if you show this to the porter – ”

“I enter.”

“Without difficulty?”

“As this wine into my stomach.” And the monk absorbed a new dose.

“And you pronounce your discourse?”

“And I pronounce my discourse. I arrive – do you hear? The assembly is numerous and select. There are barons, counts, and dukes.”

“And even princes?”

“And even princes. I enter humbly among the faithful of the Union – ”

“The Union – what does that mean?”

“I enter; they call Brother Gorenflot, and I advance – ”

At these words the monk rose. “And I advance,” continued he, trying to do so, but at the first step he rolled on the floor.

“Bravo!” cried Chicot; “you advance, you salute the audience and say – ”

“No, it is my friends who say, Brother Gorenflot – a fine name for a leaguer, is it not?”

“A leaguer,” thought Chicot: “what truths is this wine going to bring out?”

“Then I begin.” And the monk rose, and leaned against the wall.

“You begin,” said Chicot, holding him up.

“I begin, ‘My brothers, it is a good day for the faith, a very good day, my brothers; it is a very good day for the faith.’”

After this, as Chicot loosed his hold, Gorenflot fell full length again on the floor, and before many minutes a loud snoring was heard.

“Good,” said Chicot, “he is in for twelve hours sleep. I can easily undress him.”

He then untied the monk’s robe, and pulled it off; then rolled Gorenflot in the tablecloth, and covered his head with a napkin, and hiding the monk’s frock under his cloak, passed into the kitchen.

“M. Boutromet,” said he, “here is for our supper, and for my horse; and pray do not wake the worthy Brother Gorenflot, who sleeps sound.”