“Yes, I understand it well.”

“And Borromee an apt pupil.”

“Oh, yes! he is very intelligent.”

While the monks went through their exercises, Gorenflot said, “You shall see my little Jacques.”

“Who is Jacques?”

“A nice lad, calm-looking, but strong, and quick as lightning.  Look, there he is with a musket in his hand, about to fire.”

“And he fires well.”

“That he does.”

“But stay—­”

“Do you know him?”

“No; I thought I did, but I was wrong.”

While they spoke, Jacques loaded a heavy musket, and placing himself at one hundred yards from the mark, fired, and the ball lodged in the center, amid the applause of the monks.

“That was well done!” cried Chicot.

“Thank you, monsieur,” said Jacques, whose cheeks colored with pleasure.

“You manage your arms well,” added Chicot.

“I study, monsieur.”

“But he is best at the sword,” said Gorenflot; “those who understand it, say so, and he is practicing from morning till night.”

“Ah! let us see,” said Chicot.

“No one here, except perhaps myself, is capable of fencing with him; but will you try him yourself, monsieur?” said Borromee.

“I am but a poor bourgeois,” said Chicot; “formerly I have used my sword like others, but now my legs tremble and my arm is weak.”

“But you practice still?”

“A little,” replied Chicot, with a smile.  “However, you, Brother Borromee, who are all muscle and tendon, give a lesson to Brother Jacques, I beg, if the prior will permit it.”

“I shall be delighted,” cried Gorenflot.

The two combatants prepared for the trial.  Borromee had the advantage in height and experience.  The blood mounted to the cheeks of Jacques and animated them with a feverish color.  Borromee gradually dropped all appearance of a monk, and was completely the maitre d’armes:  he accompanied each thrust with a counsel or a reproach, but often the vigor and quickness of Jacques triumphed over the skill of his teacher, who was several times touched.

When they paused, Chicot said, “Jacques touched six times and Borromee nine; that is well for the scholar, but not so well for the master.”

The flash of Borromee’s eyes showed Chicot that he was proud.

“Monsieur,” replied he, in a tone which he endeavored to render calm, “the exercise of arms is a difficult one, especially for poor monks.”

“Nevertheless,” said Chicot, “the master ought to be at least half as good again as his pupil, and if Jacques were calmer, I am certain he would fence as well as you.”

“I do not think so,” replied Borromee, biting his lips with anger.

“Well!  I am sure of it.”

“M.  Briquet, who is so clever, had better try Jacques himself,” replied Borromee, in a bitter tone.

“Oh!  I am old.”