In the interior of this paradise for gourmands and sluggards, in a sumptuous apartment, we shall find Gorenflot, ornamented with an additional chin, and characterized by that sort of venerable gravity which the constant habit of repose and good living gives to the most vulgar faces.  Half-past seven in the morning had just struck.  The prior had profited by the rule which gave to him an hour’s more sleep than to the other monks, and now, although he had risen, he was quietly continuing his sleep in a large armchair as soft as eider down.  The furniture of the room was more mundane than religious; a carved table, covered with a rich cloth, books of religious gallantry—­that singular mixture of love and devotion, which we only meet with at that epoch of art—­expensive vases, and curtains of rich damask, were some of the luxuries of which Dom Modeste Gorenflot had become possessed by the grace of God, of the king, and of Chicot.

Gorenflot slept, as we have said, in his chair, when the door opened softly, and two men entered.  The first was about thirty-five years of age, thin and pale, and with a look which commanded, even before he spoke; lightnings seemed to dart from his eyes when they were open, although the expression was generally softened by a careful lowering of the white eyelids.  This was Brother Borromee, who had been for the last three weeks treasurer of the convent.  The other was a young man about seventeen or eighteen, with piercing black eyes, a bold look, and whose turned-up sleeves displayed two strong arms quick in gesticulation.

“The prior sleeps still, Father Borromee,” said he:  “shall we wake him?”

“On no account, Brother Jacques.”

“Really, it is a pity to have a prior who sleeps so long, for we might have tried the arms this morning.  Did you notice what beautiful cuirasses and arquebuses there were among them?”

“Silence! brother; you will be heard.”

“How unlucky,” cried the young man, impatiently, stamping his feet, “it is so fine to-day, and the court is so dry.”

“We must wait, my child,” replied Borromee, with a submission his glance belied.

“But why do you not order them to distribute the arms?”

“I, order!”

“Yes, you.”

“You know that I am not the master here; there is the master.”

“Yes, asleep, when every one else is awake,” replied Jacques, impatiently.

“Let us respect his sleep,” said Borromee, overturning a chair, however, as he spoke.

At the sound, Gorenflot looked up and said, sleepily, “Who is there?”

“Pardon us,” said Borromee, “if we interrupt your pious meditations, but I have come to take your orders.”

“Ah! good-morning, Brother Borromee; what orders do you want?”

“About the arms.”

“What arms?”

“Those which your reverence ordered to be brought here.”

“I, and when?”