“Bah!  I have seen more than that; pass me one of your bottles, and I will tell you what I have seen.”

Borromee hastened to comply with Chicot’s desire.

“Let me hear,” said he.

“Firstly, I have seen M. de Mayenne wounded.”

“Bah!”

“No wonder, he was on my route.  And then I have seen the taking of Cahors.”

“How? the taking of Cahors?”

“Certainly.  Ah! captain, it was a grand thing to see, and a brave man like you would have been delighted.”

“I do not doubt it.  You were, then, near the king of Navarre?”

“Side by side, my friend, as we are now.”

“And you left him?”

“To announce this news to the king of France.”

“Then you have been at the Louvre?”

“Yes, just before you.”

“Then, as we have not quitted each other since, I need not ask you what you have done.”

“On the contrary, ask; for that is the most curious of all.”

“Tell me, then.”

“Tell! oh, it is very easy to say tell.”

“Try.”

“One more glass of wine, then, to loosen my tongue.  Quite full; that will do.  Well, I saw, comrade, that when you gave the king the Duc de Guise’s letter, you let another fall.”

“Another!” cried Borromee, starting up.  “Yes, it is there.”

And having tried two or three times, with an unsteady hand, he put his finger on the buff doublet of Borromee, just where the letter was.  Borromee started, as though Chicot’s finger had been a hot iron, and had touched his skin instead of his doublet.

“Oh, oh!” said he, “there is but one thing wanting.”

“What is that?”

“That you should know to whom the letter is addressed.”

“Oh, I know quite well; it is addressed to the Duchesse de Montpensier.”

“Good heavens!  I hope you have not told that to the king.”

“No; but I will tell him.”

“When?”

“When I have had a nap.”  And he let his arms fall on the table, and his head on them.

“Then as soon as you can walk you will go to the Louvre?”

“I will.”

“You will denounce me.”

“I will denounce you.”

“Is it not a joke?”

“What?”

“That you will tell the king after your nap.”

“Not at all.  You see, my dear friend,” said Chicot, half raising his head, “you are a conspirator, and I am a spy; you have a plot, and I denounce you; we each follow our business.”

And Chicot laid his head down again, so that his face was completely hidden by his hands, while the back of his head was protected by his helmet.

“Ah!” cried Borromee, “you will denounce me when you wake!” and, rising, he made a furious blow with his dagger on the back of his companion, thinking to pierce him through and nail him to the table.  But he had not reckoned on the shirt of mail which Chicot had carried away from the priory.  The dagger broke upon it like glass, and for the second time Chicot owed his life to it.