“Yes, you; you are disgraceful to see; you are covered with mud; you have been drunk in the streets.” “It is too true!” “If you go on so, I will abandon you.” “Chicot, my friend, you will not do that? Am I very guilty?” “There are archers at Lyons.” “Oh, pity! my dear protector, pity!” “Are you a Christian or not?” “I not a Christian!” “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. “Now who am I to confess?” “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. “Perfectly.” “Then I will go.” “Stay; I must tell you what to do.” “Oh! I know.” “You do not know what I wish.” “What you wish?” “If you execute it well, I will give you one hundred pistoles to spend here.” “What must I do?” “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.” “What for?” “To gain one hundred pistoles, stupid.” “Ah! true; I go.” “Wait a minute. He will tell you he has confessed.” “But if he has?” “Tell him he lies; that the man who has just left him is no confessor, but an intriguer like himself.” “But he will be angry.” “What does that matter, since he is dying?” “True.” “Well; one way or the other, you must get hold of those papers.” “If he refuses?” “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.” “And if I cannot get them?” “Knock also.” “Then, in any case I am to knock?” “Yes.” 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.” “You think so?” “I am sure of it.” “It is a ruse of Satan, who wishes you to die without confession.” “Then he will be deceived, for I have just confessed.” “To whom?” “To a worthy priest from Avignon.” “He was not a priest.” “Not!” “No.” “How do you know?” “I knew him.” “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?”