“Would you sooner have seen Chicot lying there, and Borromee alive?”

“No, oh no!” cried the host, from the very bottom of his heart.

“Well, that would have happened, however, had it not been for a miracle of Providence.”—­“Really?”

“Upon the word of Chicot, just look at my back, for it pains me a good deal, my dear friend.”

And he stooped down before the innkeeper, so that both his shoulders might be on a level with the host’s eye.

Between the two shoulders the doublet was pierced through, and a spot of blood as large and round as a silver crown piece reddened the edges of the hole.

“Blood!” cried Bonhomet, “blood!  Ah, you are wounded!”

“Wait, wait.”

And Chicot unfastened his doublet and his shirt.  “Now look!” he said.

“Oh! you wore a cuirass!  What a fortunate thing, dear Monsieur Chicot; and you were saying that the ruffian wished to assassinate you.”

“Diable! it hardly seems likely I should have taken any pleasure in giving myself a dagger thrust between my own shoulders.  Now, what do you see?”

“A link broken.”

“That dear captain was in good earnest then; is there much blood?”

“Yes, a good deal under the links.”

“I must take off the cuirass, then,” said Chicot.

Chicot took off his cuirass, and bared the upper part of his body, which seemed to be composed of nothing else but bones, of muscles spread over the bones, and of skin merely covering the muscles.

“Ah!  Monsieur Chicot,” exclaimed Bonhomet, “you have a wound as large as a plate.”

“Yes, I suppose the blood has spread; there is what doctors call ecchymosis; give me some clean linen, pour into a glass equal parts of good olive oil and wine dregs, and wash that stain for me.”

“But, dear M. Chicot, what am I to do with this body?”

“That is not your affair.”

“What! not my affair?”

“No.  Give me some ink, a pen, and a sheet of paper.”

“Immediately, dear Monsieur Chicot,” said Bonhomet, as he darted out of the room.

Meanwhile Chicot, who probably had no time to lose, heated at the lamp the point of a small dagger, and cut in the middle of the wax the seal of the letter.  This being done, and as there was nothing else to retain the dispatch, Chicot drew it from its envelope, and read it with the liveliest marks of satisfaction.

Just as he had finished reading it, Maitre Bonhomet returned with the oil, the wine, the paper, and the pen.

Chicot arranged the pen, ink, and paper before him, sat himself down at the table, and turned his back with stoical indifference toward Bonhomet for him to operate upon.  The latter understood the pantomime, and began to rub it.

However, as if, instead of irritating a painful wound, some one had been tickling him in the most delightful manner, Chicot, during the operation, copied the letter from the Duc de Guise to his sister, and made his comments thereon at every word.