At last M. Bernouillet came into Chicot's room, laughing immoderately.
“He is dying,” said he, “and the man has arrived from Avignon.”
“It is he,” thought Chicot; and he said, “Tell me about his arrival.”
“An hour ago I was in the kitchen, when I saw a great horse, ridden by a little man, stop before the door. 'Is M. Nicolas here?' asked he. 'Yes, monsieur,' said I. 'Tell him that the person he expects from Avignon is here.' 'Certainly, monsieur, but I must warn you that he is very ill.' 'All the more reason for doing my bidding at once.' 'But he has a malignant fever.' 'Oh, pray, then, be quick!' 'How! you persist?' 'I persist.' 'In spite of the danger!' 'In spite of everything I must see him.' So I took him to the room, and there he is now. Is it not odd?”
“He forbade me to go in, saying he was going to confess.”
Bernouillet went, and Chicot went also to his hole: but they spoke so low that he could hear nothing, and in a few minutes Gondy rose and took leave. Chicot ran to the window, and saw a lackey waiting with a horse, which M. de Gondy mounted and rode off.
“If he only has not carried off the genealogy. Never mind, I shall soon catch him if necessary; but I suspect it is left here. Where can Gorenflot be?”
M. Bernouillet returned, saying, “He is gone.”
“He is no more a confessor than I am.”
“Will you send me my brother as soon as he comes in.”
Bernouillet went, and Chicot remained in a state of indecision as to what to do, for he thought, “If David is really so ill, he may have sent on the despatches by Gondy.” Presently he heard Gorenflot's voice, singing a drinking song as he came up the stairs.
“Silence, drunkard!” said Chicot.
“Yes; but come here and speak seriously, if you can.”
“It is, that you never think of the duties of your profession, that you wallow in greediness and drunkenness, and let religion go where it pleases.”
Gorenflot looked astonished. “I!” he gasped.
“Yes, you; you are disgraceful to see; you are covered with mud; you have been drunk in the streets.”
“If you go on so, I will abandon you.”
“Chicot, my friend, you will not do that? Am I very guilty?”
“Oh, pity! my dear protector, pity!”
“Then do not let a neighbor die without confession.”
“I am ready, but I must drink first, for I am thirsty.”
Chicot passed him a jug of water, which he emptied.
“Our unlucky neighbor who is dying.”
“Let them give him a pint of wine with honey in it.”
“He needs spiritual aid as well as temporal. Go to him.”
“Am I fit?” said Gorenflot, timidly.
“Stay; I must tell you what to do.”
“You do not know what I wish.”
“If you execute it well, I will give you one hundred pistoles to spend here.”
“Listen; your robe gives you authority; in the name of God and the King, summon him to give up the papers he has just received from Avignon.”
“To gain one hundred pistoles, stupid.”
“Wait a minute. He will tell you he has confessed.”
“Tell him he lies; that the man who has just left him is no confessor, but an intriguer like himself.”
“What does that matter, since he is dying?”
“Well; one way or the other, you must get hold of those papers.”
“Refuse him absolution, curse him, anathematize him——”
“Oh, I will take them by force.”
“Good; and when you have got them, knock on the wall.”
“Then, in any case I am to knock?”
Gorenflot went, and Chicot placed his ear to the hole in the wall. When Gorenflot entered, the sick man raised himself in his bed, and looked at him with wonder.
“Good day, brother,” said Gorenflot.
“What do you want, my father?” murmured the sick man, in a feeble voice.
“My son, I hear you are in danger, and I come to speak to you of your soul.”
“Thank you, but I think your care is needless; I feel better.”
“It is a ruse of Satan, who wishes you to die without confession.”
“Then he will be deceived, for I have just confessed.”
“To a worthy priest from Avignon.”
“You knew the man who has just gone?”
“Yes; and as you are not better, and this man was not a priest, you must confess.”
“Very well,” replied the patient, in a stronger voice, “but I will chose to whom I will confess.”
“You will have no time to send for another priest, and I am here.”
“How! no time, when I tell you I am getting well?”
Gorenflot shook his head. “I tell you, my son, you are condemned by the doctors and by Providence; you may think it cruel to tell you so, but it is what we must all come to sooner or later. Confess, my son, confess.”
“But I assure you, father, that I feel much stronger.”
“A mistake, my son, the lamp flares up at the last, just before it goes out. Come, confess all your plots, your intrigues, and machinations!”
“My intrigues and plots!” cried David, frightened at this singular monk, whom he did not know, but who seemed to know him so well.
“Yes; and when you have told all that, give me up the papers, and perhaps God will let me absolve you.”
“What papers?” cried the sick man, in a voice as strong as though he were quite well.
“The papers that the pretended priest brought you from Avignon.”
“And who told you that he brought me papers?” cried the patient, putting one leg out of bed.
Gorenflot began to feel frightened, but he said firmly, “He who told me knew well what he was saying; give me the papers, or you shall have no absolution.”
“I laugh at your absolution,” cried David, jumping out of bed, and seizing Gorenflot by the throat, “and you shall see if I am too ill to strangle you.”
Gorenflot was strong, and he pushed David back so violently that he fell into the middle of the room. But he rose furious, and seizing a long sword, which hung on the wall behind his clothes, presented it to the throat of Gorenflot, who sank on a chair in terror.
“It is now your turn to confess,” said he, “speak, or you die.”
“Oh!” cried Gorenflot, “then you are not ill—not dying.”
“It is not for you to question, but to answer.”
“What brought you to this inn?”
“How long have you been here?”
“How did you know that I had the papers?”
Gorenflot cried out, and a spot of blood appeared on the point of the sword.
“Here!” cried a voice, and Chicot appeared at the door with a drawn sword in his hand.
