“See her, then.”

“No, no! dear M. Chicot, although she has sent me a hundred bottles of Sicilian wine.”

“A hundred bottles!”

“I will not receive her, although she is probably some great lady.  I will receive only you.”

“You will do this?”

“To breakfast with you, dear M. Chicot—­to repair my wrongs toward you.”

“Which came from your pride.”

“I will humble myself.”

“From your idleness.”

“Well! from to-morrow I will join my monks in their exercises.”

“What exercises?”

“Of arms.”

“Arms!”

“Yes; but it will be fatiguing to command.”

“Who had this idea?”

“I, it seems.”

“You! impossible!”

“No.  I gave the order to Brother Borromee.”

“Who is he?”

“The new treasurer.”

“Where does he come from?”

“M. le Cardinal de Guise recommended him.”

“In person?”

“No, by letter.”

“And it is with him you decided on this?”

“Yes, my friend.”

“That is to say, he proposed it and you agreed.”

“No, my dear M. Chicot; the idea was entirely mine.”

“And for what end?”

“To arm them.”

“Oh! pride, pride!  Confess that the idea was his.”

“Oh!  I do not know.  And yet it must have been mine, for it seems that I pronounced a very good Latin text on the occasion.”

“You!  Latin!  Do you remember it?”

“Militat spiritu—­”

“Militat gladio.”

“Yes, yes:  that was it.”

“Well, you have excused yourself so well that I pardon you.  You are still my true friend.”

Gorenflot wiped away a tear.

“Now let us breakfast, and I promise to be indulgent.”

“Listen!  I will tell the cook that if the fare be not regal, he shall be placed in confinement; and we will try some of the wine of my penitent.”

“I will aid you with my judgment."’

CHAPTER XX.

The breakfast.

Gorenflot was not long in giving his orders.  The cook was summoned.

“Brother Eusebius,” said Gorenflot, in a severe voice, “listen to what my friend M. Briquet is about to tell you.  It seems that you are negligent, and I hear of grave faults in your last soup, and a fatal mistake in the cooking of your ears.  Take care, brother, take care; a single step in a wrong direction may be irremediable.”

The monk grew red and pale by turns, and stammered out an excuse.

“Enough,” said Gorenflot, “what can we have for breakfast to-day?”

“Eggs fried with cock’s combs.”

“After?”

“Mushrooms.”

“Well?”

“Crabs cooked with Madeira.”

“Those are all trifles; tell us of something solid.”