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.” “To answer what?” “Who are you?” “You can see that.” “Your name?” “Brother Gorenflot.” “You are then a real monk?” “I should think so.” “What brings you to Lyons?” “I am exiled.” “What brought you to this inn?” “Chance.” “How long have you been here?” “A fortnight.” “Why did you watch me?” “I did not.” “How did you know that I had the papers?” “Because I was told so.” “Who told you?” “He who sent me here.” “Who was that?” “I cannot tell you.” “You must.” “Oh! oh! I will cry out.” “And I will kill.” Gorenflot cried out, and a spot of blood appeared on the point of the sword. “His name?” cried David. “Oh! I can hold out no more.” “Speak.” “It was Chicot.” “The king’s jester!” “Himself.” “And where is he?” “Here!” cried a voice, and Chicot appeared at the door with a drawn sword in his hand. CHAPTER XXXII. HOW CHICOT USED HIS SWORD. Nicolas David, in recognizing him whom he knew to be his mortal enemy, could not repress a movement of terror, during which Gorenflot slipped a little to the side, crying out, “Help, friend! come to my aid!”