Bernard de Rohan found, on the entrance of the priest, that it was his own attendant, Martin, with whom Father Willand had been conversing. The attendant immediately produced the Count de Meyrand's note, which his master read attentively, and with an appearance of satisfaction. "So my friend De Meyrand has gone on business of importance to Paris," he said aloud. "Ay, as the fox is said to go to his hole," replied the priest. "I dare say, indeed," replied the young cavalier, "that there are many foxes in that hole, my good father; but still your comparison is not a very pleasant one for the good count." "The comparison was more aimed at his way of going to Paris than at either Paris or himself," replied the priest. "I repeat, he is gone to Paris as a fox is said to go to his hole; that is, back foremost." "Nay," replied Bernard de Rohan, "I never yet saw fox so stupid. Why should a fox go back foremost?" "To hide the way he goes," answered the priest; "to make the footsteps point out of the hole instead of into it. So the good peasants tell one." "But how can this apply to the Count de Meyrand?" asked Bernard de Rohan, with his curiosity now considerably excited. "Because he tells you," replied the priest, "that he is going to Paris, and we watched him from the top of the hill, and saw him turn quite the other way before he got two leagues out into the plain." "Strange enough!" replied Bernard de Rohan, not choosing to appear as much interested as he really was; "strange enough; but he may well have some friends to see--some town to visit in the way. Come, my good host! come, let us have supper speedily, and give us more light, for the night is growing dark and sombre. Good priest," he continued, turning to Father Willand, and speaking in a low voice, "I have a word for your private ear by-and-by; somewhat to consult upon, regarding which I need sound discretion and good counsel. I beseech you, therefore, pause at the end of the first stoup of wine." "My son, my son," replied the priest, "men have always made a mistake with regard to the abode of truth. Truth and my brains lie together at the bottom of the second pottle pot, for most men are sure to tell the truth when they get to that pitch; and my brains are never clear, clean, and neat till they have been washed in that quantity at least. Fear not, fear not, I will be careful; though, if you are going to confess yourself, you ought to wish me as drunk as possible, for the penances I enjoin are always light when my knees feel like an unstarched ruff. Were it not better, however, to talk this matter over first, while my good host prepares the supper, and then we can consider it in our cups, you know?"