"Why, he knows me!" "Have I not named you two or three times?" said Miton. "Ah! true. Well, since he knows me, perhaps he will answer. Now, monsieur, I believe you agree with me, or else would be there, while, on the contrary, you are here." "But you, M. Friard, since you think the contrary of what you think I think, why are you not at the Place de Greve? I thought the spectacle would have been a joyful one to all friends of the king. Perhaps you will reply that you are not friends of the king; but of MM. de Guise, and that you are waiting here for the Lorraines, who they say are about to enter Paris in order to deliver M. de Salcede." "No, monsieur," replied the little man, visibly frightened at this suggestion; "I wait for my wife, Nicole Friard, who has gone to take twenty-four tablecloths to the priory of the Jacobins, having the honor to be washerwoman to Dom. Modeste Gorenflot, the abbe." "Look, compere," cried Miton, "at what is passing." M. Friard, following the direction of his friend's finger, saw them closing yet another door, while a party of Swiss placed themselves before it. "How! more barriers!" cried he. "What did I tell you?" said Miton. At the sight of this new precaution, a long murmur of astonishment and some cries of discontent proceeded from the crowd. "Clear the road! Back!" cried an officer. This maneuver was not executed without difficulty; the people in carts and on horseback tried to go back, and nearly crushed the crowd behind them. Women cried and men swore, while those who could escape, did, overturning the others. "The Lorraines! the Lorraines!" cried a voice in the midst of this tumult. "Oh!" cried Miton, trembling, "let us fly." "Fly! and where?" said Friard. "Into this inclosure," answered Miton tearing his hands by seizing the thorns of the hedge. "Into that inclosure, it is not so easy. I see no opening, and you cannot climb a hedge that is higher than I am." "I will try," returned Miton, making new efforts. "Oh! take care, my good woman," cried Friard, in a tone of distress; "your ass is on my feet. Oh, monsieur, take care, your horse is going to kick." While M. Miton was vainly trying to climb the hedge, and M. Friard to find an opening through which to push himself, their neighbor quietly opened his long legs and strode over the hedge with as much ease as one might have leaped it on horseback. M. Miton imitated him at last after much detriment to his hands and clothes; but poor Friard could not succeed, in spite of all his efforts, till the stranger, stretching out his long arms, and seizing him by the collar of his doublet, lifted him over. "Ah! monsieur," said he, when he felt himself on the ground, "on the word of Jean Friard, you are a real Hercules; your name, monsieur? the name of my deliverer?" "I am called Briquet--Robert Briquet, monsieur."