The monks entered, showing their hands, or something in them, and passed on. “I should like to go also,” thought Chicot; “but for that I want two things--a monk’s robe, for I see no layman here, and then this mysterious thing which they show to the porter, for certainly they show something. Ah, Brother Gorenflot, if you were here!” The monks continued to arrive, till it seemed as if half Paris had taken the frock. “There must be something extraordinary to-night,” thought Chicot. “I will go and find Gorenflot at the Corne d’Abondance; he will be at supper.” CHAPTER XVIII. BROTHER GORENFLOT. To the beautiful day had succeeded a beautiful evening, only, as the day had been cold, the evening was still colder. It was one of those frosts which make the lights in the windows of an hotel look doubly tempting. Chicot first entered the dining-room, and looked around him, but not finding there the man he sought for, went familiarly down to the kitchen. The master of the establishment was superintending a frying-pan full of whitings. At the sound of Chicot’s step he turned. “Ah! it is you, monsieur,” said he, “good evening, and a good appetite to you.” “Thanks for the wish, but you know I cannot bear to eat alone.” “If necessary, monsieur, I will sup with you.” “Thanks, my dear host, but though I know you to be an excellent companion, I seek for some one else.” “Brother Gorenflot, perhaps?” “Just so; has he begun supper?” “No, not yet; but you must make haste nevertheless, for in five minutes he will have finished.” “Monsieur!” cried Chicot, striking his head. “Monsieur, it is Friday, and the beginning of Lent.” “Well, and what then?” said Chicot, who did not hold a high opinion of Gorenflot’s religious austerity. Boutromet shrugged his shoulders. “Decidedly, something must be wrong,” said Chicot, “five minutes for Gorenflot’s supper! I am destined to see wonders to-day.” Chicot then advanced towards a small private room, pushed open the door, and saw within the worthy monk, who was turning negligently on his plate a small portion of spinach, which he tried to render more savory by the introduction into it of some cheese. Brother Gorenflot was about thirty-eight years of age and five feet high. However, what he wanted in height, he made up in breadth, measuring nearly three feet in diameter from shoulder to shoulder, which, as everyone knows, is equal to nine feet of circumference. Between these Herculean shoulders rose a neck of which the muscles stood out like cords. Unluckily this neck partook of the same proportions; it was short and thick, which at any great emotion might render Brother Gorenflot liable to apoplexy. But knowing this, perhaps, he never gave way to emotions, and was seldom so disturbed as he was when Chicot entered his room. “Ah, my friend! what are you doing?” cried Chicot, looking at the vegetables and at a glass filled with water just colored with a few drops of wine.