Chicot was silent for a minute, leaving Gorenflot a prey to all the anguish of such profound terror that he nearly fainted again. At last Chicot said, “Sire, look well at this monk.” “The preacher Gorenflot,” cried Henri. “Confiteor, confiteor,” repeated he. “Himself,” said Chicot. “He who----” “Just so,” interrupted Chicot. “Ah, ah!” Gorenflot shook with terror, for he heard the sounds of swords clashing. “Wait,” said Chicot, “the king must know all.” And, taking him aside, “My son,” said he, “thank God for having permitted this holy man to be born thirty-five years ago, for it is he who has saved us all.” “How so?” “It was he who recounted to me the whole plot, from the alpha to the omega.” “When?” “About a week ago; so that if ever your majesty’s enemies catch him he will be a dead man.” Gorenflot heard only the last words, “a dead man”; and he covered his face with his hands. “Worthy man,” said the king, casting a benevolent look on the mass of flesh before him, “we will cover him with our protection.” Gorenflot perceived the nature of the look, and began to feel relieved. “You will do well, my king,” said Chicot. “What must we do with him?” “I think that as long as he remains in Paris he will be in danger.” “If I gave him guards.” Gorenflot heard this proposition of Henri’s. “Well!” thought he, “I shall get off with imprisonment; I prefer that to beating, if they only feed me well.” “Oh! no, that is needless,” said Chicot, “if you will allow me to take him with me.” “Where?” “Home.” “Well! take him, and then return to the Louvre.” “Get up, reverend father,” said Chicot. “He mocks me,” murmured Gorenflot. “Get up, brute,” whispered Chicot, giving him a sly kick. “Ah! I have deserved it,” cried Gorenflot. “What does he say?” asked the king. “Sire, he is thinking over all his fatigues and his tortures, and when I promised him your protection, he said, ‘Oh! I have well merited that.’” “Poor devil!” said the king, “take good care of him.” “Oh! be easy, sire, he will want for nothing with me.” “Oh! M. Chicot, dear M. Chicot,” cried Gorenflot, “where am I to be taken to?” “You will know soon. Meanwhile, monster of iniquity, thank his majesty.” “What for?” “Thank him, I tell you.” “Sire,” stammered Gorenflot, “since your gracious majesty----” “Yes,” interrupted Henri, “I know all you did for me, in your journey from Lyons, on the evening of the League, and again to-day. Be easy, you shall be recompensed according to your merits.” Gorenflot sighed. “Where is Panurge?” said Chicot. “In the stable, poor beast.” “Well! go and fetch him, and return to me.” “Yes, M. Chicot.” And the monk went away as fast as he could, much astonished not to be followed by guards. “Now, my son,” said Chicot, “keep twenty men for your own escort, and send ten with M. Crillon to the Hôtel d’Anjou and let them bring your-brother here.” “Why?” “That he may not escape a second time.” “Did my brother----”