“You see, my brother, I sup,” replied Gorenflot in a powerful voice. “You call that supper, Gorenflot! Herbs and cheese?” “We are in the beginning of Lent, brother; we must think of our souls,” replied Gorenflot, raising his eyes to heaven. Chicot looked astounded; he had so often seen Gorenflot feast in a different manner during Lent. “Our souls!” said he; “and what the devil have herbs and water to do with them?” “We are forbidden to eat meat on Wednesdays and Fridays.” “But when did you breakfast?” “I have not breakfasted, my brother,” said the monk. “Not breakfasted! Then what have you done?” “Composed a discourse,” said Gorenflot proudly. “A discourse, and what for?” “To deliver this evening at the abbey.” “That is odd.” “And I must be quick and go there, or perhaps my audience will grow impatient.” Chicot thought of the infinite number of monks he had seen going to the abbey, and wondered why Gorenflot, whom certainly he had never thought eloquent, had been chosen to preach before M. de Mayenne and the numerous assemblage. “When are you to preach?” said he. “At half-past nine.” “Good; it is still a quarter to nine, you can give me a few minutes. Ventre de biche! we have not dined together for a week.” “It is not our fault, but I know that your duties keep you near our King Henry III., while my duties fill up my time.” “Yes, but it seems to me that is so much the more reason why we should be merry when we do meet.” “Yes, I am merry,” said Gorenflot, with a piteous look, “but still I must leave you.” “At least, finish your supper.” Gorenflot looked at the spinach, and sighed, then at the water, and turned away his head. “Do you remember,” said Chicot, “the little dinner at the Porte Montmartre, where, while the king was scourging himself and others, we devoured a teal from the marshes of the Grauge-Batelière, with a sauce made with crabs, and we drank that nice Burgundy wine; what do you call it?” “It is a wine of my country, La Romanée.” “Yes, yes, it was the milk you sucked as a baby, worthy son of Noah.” “It was good,” said Gorenflot, “but there is better.” “So says Claude Boutromet, who pretends that he has in his cellar fifty bottles to which that is paltry.” “It is true.” “True, and yet you drink that abominable red water. Fie!” And Chicot, taking the glass, threw the contents out of window. “There is a time for all, my brother,” said Gorenflot, “and wine is good when one has only to praise God after it, but water is better when one has a discourse to pronounce.” “Opinions differ, for I, who have also a discourse to pronounce, am going to ask for a bottle of Romanée. What do you advise me to take with it, Gorenflot?” “Not these herbs, they are not nice.” Chicot, seizing the plate, threw it after the water, and then cried, “Maître Claude.” The host appeared. “M. Claude, bring me two bottles of your Romanée, which you call so good.” “Why two bottles,” said Gorenflot, “as I do not drink it?”