“Yes; I tell you he tried to strangle me.” “How did he seem?” “Pale and furious, and constantly crying out.” “What?” “Take care of the king! they want to hurt the king! Then he constantly says that he expects a man from Avignon, and wishes to see him before he dies.” As for Gorenflot, he grew visibly fatter every day, so much so, that he announced to Chicot with terror one day that the staircase was narrowing. Neither David, the League, nor religion occupied him; he thought of nothing but how to vary his dinner and wine, so that Bernouillet often exclaimed in astonishment, “To think that that man should be a torrent of eloquence!” CHAPTER XXXI. HOW THE MONK CONFESSED THE ADVOCATE, AND THE ADVOCATE THE MONK. At last M. Bernouillet came into Chicot’s room, laughing immoderately. “He is dying,” said he, “and the man has arrived from Avignon.” “Have you seen him?” “Of course.” “What is he like?” “Little and thin.” “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?” “Very droll.” “I wish I could hear them.” “Go in.” “He forbade me to go in, saying he was going to confess.” “Listen at the door.” 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.” “The confessor?” “He is no more a confessor than I am.” “Will you send me my brother as soon as he comes in.” “Even if he be drunk?” “Whatever state he is 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. “Drunkard, indeed!” “Yes; but come here and speak seriously, if you can.” “What is it now?” “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.