“No, certainly, unless indeed you had forbidden me, dear M. Chicot.”

“Suppose that, having been placed in that corner, he had, notwithstanding the care and attention you had bestowed upon him, departed this life while in your charge, it would have been a great misfortune, and nothing more, I suppose?”

“Certainly.”

“And, instead of incurring any blame, you would deserve to be commended for your humanity.  Suppose, again, that while he was dying this poor captain had mentioned the name, which you know very well, of the prior of Les Jacobins Saint Antoine?”

“Of Dom Modeste Gorenflot?” exclaimed Bonhomet, in astonishment.

“Yes, of Dom Modeste Gorenflot.  Very good!  You will go and inform Dom Modeste of it; Dom Modeste will hasten here with all speed, and, as the dead man’s purse is found in one of his pockets—­you understand it is important that the purse should be found; I mention this merely by way of advice—­and as the dead man’s purse is found in one of his pockets, and this letter in the other, no suspicion whatever can be entertained.”

“I understand, dear Monsieur Chicot.”

“In addition to which you will receive a reward, instead of being punished.”

“You are a great man, dear Monsieur Chicot; I will run at once to the Priory of St. Antoine.”

“Wait a minute! did I not say there was the purse and the letter?”

“Oh! yes, and you have the letter in your hand.”—­“Precisely.”

“I must not say that it has been read and copied?”

“Pardieu! it is precisely on account of this letter reaching its destination intact that you will receive a recompense.”

“The letter contains a secret, then?”

“In such times as the present there are secrets in everything, my dear Bonhomet.”

And Chicot, with this sententious reply, again fastened the silk under the wax of the seal by making use of the same means as he had done before; he then fastened the wax so artistically that the most experienced eye would not have been able to have detected the slightest crack.

He then replaced the letter in the pocket of the dead man, had the linen, which had been steeped in the oil and wine, applied to his wound by way of a cataplasm, put on again the safety coat of mail next to his skin, his shirt over his coat of mail, picked up his sword, wiped it, thrust it into the scabbard, and withdrew.

He returned again, however, saying: 

“If, after all, the story which I have invented does not seem satisfactory to you, you can accuse the captain of having thrust his own sword through his body.”

“A suicide?”

“Well, that don’t compromise any one, you understand.”

“But they won’t bury this ill-starred fellow in holy ground.”

“Pooh,” said Chicot, “will that be giving him much pleasure?”

“Why, yes, I should think so.”

“In that case, do as you like, my dear Bonhomet; adieu.”