Nicholas Poulain trembled so that he shook the hedge.  “Monsieur!” cried he, clasping his hands.

“But I am your friend, dear M. Poulain, and I will give you a counsel.”

“A counsel?”

“Yes; and very easy to follow.  Go at once, you understand, to—­”

“Whom?”

“Let me think.  To M. d’Epernon.”

“M. d’Epernon, the king’s friend?”

“Take him aside, and tell him all about this.”

“This is folly.”

“No, it is wisdom.  It is clear that if I denounce you as the man of the cuirasses and measures, they will hang you; but if, on the contrary, you disclose all, with a good grace, they will reward you.  You do not appear convinced, however.  Well! that will give me the trouble of returning to the Louvre, but I do not mind doing that for you,” and he began to rise.

“No, no; stay here, I will go.”

“Good!  But you understand, no subterfuges, or to-morrow I shall send a little note to the king, whose intimate friend I have the honor to be, so that if you are not hanged till the day after to-morrow, you will only be hanged the higher.”

“I will go; but you abuse your position.”

“Oh!  M. Poulain, you were a traitor five minutes ago, and I make you the savior of your country.  Now, go quickly, for I am in a hurry.  The Hotel d’Epernon—­do not forget.”

Nicholas Poulain ran off, with a despairing look.

“Ah! it was time,” said Chicot, “for some one is leaving the priory.  But it is not Jacques; that fellow is half as tall again.”

Chicot then hastened to the Croix Faubin, where he had given the rendezvous.  The monk, who was there to meet him, was a giant in height; his monk’s robe, hastily thrown on, did not hide his muscular limbs, and his face bore anything but a religious expression.  His arms were as long as Chicot’s own, and he had a knife in his belt.

As Chicot approached, he turned and said, “Are you M. Robert Briquet?”

“I am.”

“Then I have a letter for you from the reverend prior.”

Chicot took the letter, and read as follows: 

“My dear friend, I have reflected since we parted; it is impossible for me to let the lamb confided to me go among the wolves of the world.  I mean, you understand, our little Jacques, who has fulfilled your message to the king.  Instead of him, who is too young, I send you a good and worthy brother of our order; his manners are good, and his humor innocent, and I am sure you will like him.  I send you my benediction.  Adieu, dear friend.”

“What fine writing,” said Chicot; “I will wager it is the treasurer’s.”

“It was Brother Borromee who wrote it,” said the Goliath.

“In that case you will return to the priory, my friend.”—­“I?”

“Yes; and tell his reverence that I have changed my mind, and intend to travel alone.”

“What! you will not take me, monsieur?” said the man, with astonishment, mixed with menace.