“About a week ago.”

“I ordered arms?”

“Without doubt,” replied Borromee, firmly.

“And what for?”

“Your reverence said to me, ’Brother Borromee, it would be wise to procure arms for the use of the brethren; gymnastic exercises develop the bodily forces, as pious exhortations do those of the soul.’”

“I said that?”

“Yes, reverend prior; and I, an unworthy but obedient brother, hastened to obey.”

“It is strange, but I remember nothing about it.”

“You even added this text, ‘Militat spiritu, militat gladio.’”

“What!” cried Gorenflot, “I added that text!”

“I have a faithful memory,” said Borromee, lowering his eyes.

“Well, if I said so, of course I had my reasons for it.  Indeed, that has always been my opinion.”

“Then I will finish executing your orders, reverend prior,” said Borromee, retiring with Jacques.

“Go,” said Gorenflot, majestically.

“Ah!” said Borromee, “I had forgotten; there is a friend in the parlor who asks to see your reverence.”

“What is his name?”

“M.  Robert Briquet.”

“Oh! he is not a friend; only an acquaintance.”

“Then your reverence will not see him?”

“Oh, yes! let him come up; he amuses me.”

CHAPTER XIX.

The two friends.

When Chicot entered, the prior did not rise, but merely bent his head.

“Good-morning,” said Chicot.

“Ah! there you are; you appear to have come to life again.”

“Did you think me dead?”

“Diable!  I never saw you.”

“I was busy.”

“Ah!”

Chicot knew that before being warmed by two or three bottles of old Burgundy, Gorenflot was sparing of his words; and so, considering the time of the morning, it was probable that he was still fasting, Chicot sat down to wait.

“Will you breakfast with me, M. Briquet?” asked Gorenflot.

“Perhaps.”

“You must not be angry with me, if it has become impossible for me to give you as much time as I could wish.”

“And who the devil asked you for your time?  I did not even ask you for breakfast; you offered it.”

“Certainly I offered it; but—­”

“But you thought I should not accept.”

“Oh! no, is that my habit?”

“Ah! a superior man like you can adopt any habits, M. le Prior.”

Gorenflot looked at Chicot; he could not tell whether he was laughing at him or speaking seriously.  Chicot rose.

“Why do you rise, M. Briquet?” asked Gorenflot.

“Because I am going away.”

“And why are you going away, when you said you would breakfast with me?”

“I did not say I would; I said, perhaps.”

“You are angry.”

Chicot laughed.  “I angry!” said he, “at what?  Because you are impudent, ignorant, and rude?  Oh! my dear monsieur, I have known you too long to be angry at these little imperfections.”