La Dame de Monsoreau (28 page)

To show that his surmise was correct, the monks halted at the gate of the Abbey of St. Genevieve and were soon lost in the porch, within which another monk of the same order might have been seen attentively examining the hands of those who entered.

"Tudieu ! " thought Chicot, " it seems that to get inside this convent you must have your hands clean. Decidedly, something extraordinary is happening."

After this reflection, Chicot, rather puzzled to know what to do to keep the persons he was following in sight, looked round. What was his amazement to see all the streets full of hoods, and all these hoods advancing to the abbey, some in couples, some in groups, but all converging to the same point.

" Aha ! " muttered Chicot, " there must be a meeting of the general chapter to-night in the abbey, and all the Genevievans in France have been summoned to take part in it! Upon my faith, for the first time in my life I 'd like to be present at a chapter."

The monks, after entering the porch, showed their hands, or rather something in their hands, and passed.

" I certainly should be nothing loth to pass in with them also," said Chicot to himself ; " but two thing are essential: first, the venerated robe that enfolds them, for, to my eyes, there is no laic among these holy personages ; and secondly, that thing they show the brother porter, for, assuredly, they are showing something. Ah ! Brother Gorenflot! Brother Gorenflot.! if I could only lay my hand on thee, my worthy friend !"

This apostrophe was extracted from Chicot by the recollection of one of the most venerable monks of the Order of St. Genevieve, Chicot's usual table-companion when Chicot did not happen to eat at the Louvre, in good sooth, the very person with whom our Gascon had eaten widgeon and drunk spiced wine in the restaurant by the Porte Saint-Martin on the day of the procession of the penitents.

Meantime, the monks continued to arrive in such numbers that it almost looked as if half Paris had donned the frock, whije the brother porter scrutinized them as closely as ever.

" Odzookens ! " said Chicot to himself, " there is surely something out of the way occurring to-night. I must keep my curiosity on the go to the end. It's half -past seven; Brother Gorenflot must be through with his alms-collecting. I '11 find him at the Come d'Abondance, it is his hour for supper."

Leaving the legion of monks to perform their evolutions in the neighborhood of the abbey and afterward to disappear within its portals, and setting his horse to a gallop, he gained the Rue Saint-Jacques, where, facing the cloister of Saint-Benoit, rose the flourishing hostelry of the Come d'Abondance, a favorite resort of the monks and scholars.

Chicot was not known in the house as a regular customer, but rather as one of those mysterious guests who came occasionally to squander a gold crown and a scrap of their sanity in the establishment of Maitre Claude Bonhomet, for so was named the dispenser of the gifts of Ceres and Bacchus poured out without cessation from the famous cornucopia that served as the sign of the house.

CHAPTER XVIII.

IN WHICH THE READER MAKES BROTHER GORENFLOT'S ACQUAINTANCE.

To a lovely day had succeeded a lovely night ; except that, cold as had been the day, the night was colder still. The vapor exhaled by the breathing of the belated citizens, tinged with red by the glare of the lamps, could be seen condensing under their hats ; the footsteps of the passers-by on the frozen ground could be distinctly heard, as well as the vigorous hum, extracted by the chilliness of the season and " reverberated by

the elastic surfaces," as a professor of physics would say at the present day. In a word, it was one of those nice spring frosts that add a double charm to the rosy tints which shine on the panes of a hostelry.

Chicot first entered the dining-room, peered into every nook and corner, and, not finding the man he sought among Maitre Claude's guests, he passed familiarly into the kitchen.

The master of the establishment was reading a pious book, while a little pool of grease in a huge frying-pan was trying to attain the degree of heat necessary for the introduction of several whitings, dusted with flour, into the said pan.

At the noise made by Chicot's entrance, Maitre Bonhomet raised his head.

" Ah, it 's you, monsieur," said he, closing his book. " Good evening and a good appetite to you."

" Thanks for both your wishes, although one of them is made as much for your own profit as for mine. But that will depend."

" Will depend ! how ? "

" You know I don't like eating by myself ? "

" Oh, if you like, I '11 sup with you."

" Thanks, my dear host, I know you 're a capital companion ; but I am looking for some one."

" Brother Gorenflot, perhaps ? " asked Bonhomet.

"The very person," answered Chicot; "has he begun his supper yet ? "

" No, not yet ; still, vou had better make haste."

"Why?"'

" Because he '11 have finished it in five minutes."

" Brother Gorenflot has not begun his supper and will have finished in five minutes, you say ? "

And Chicot shook his head, which, in every country in the world, is accepted as a sign of incredulity.

" Monsieur," said Maitre Claude, " to-day is Wednesday, and we are beginning Lent."

" And suppose you are," said Chicot in a tone that proved he was rather dubious as to the religious emotions of Gorenflot, « what follows ? "

"Humph ! " answered Claude, with a gesture which clearly meant: " I 'm in the dark as much as you are, but so it is."

" Decidedly," muttered Chicot, " there must be something wrong with this sublunary sphere. Five minutes for Goren-

flot's supper! It was fated that I should witness miracles to-day."

And with the air of a traveller whose feet have touched an unknown country, Chicot made his way to a private room, and pushed open a glass door, over which hung a woollen curtain checkered in white and red. Away at the back, he perceived by the light of a sputtering candle the worthy monk, who was listlessly turning over on his plate a scanty morsel of spinach which he essayed to render more savory by blending with this herbaceous substance a fragment of Surenes cheese.

While the excellent brother is working at this mixture, with a sullen expression that augurs badly for the success of the combination, let us try to depict his personality so completely and veraciously for the benefit of our readers as in some sort to recompense them for their misfortune in not having already made his acquaintance.

Brother Gorenflot was thirty-eight years old, and five feet high, by standard measure. His stature, a little scanty perhaps, was made up for, as he was in the habit of stating himself, by the admirable harmony of the proportions ; for what he lost in height he gained in breadth, measuring nearly three feet in diameter from shoulder to shoulder, which, as every one should know, is equivalent to nine feet in circumference.

From the centre of these herculean shoulders rose a thick neck intersected by muscles as big as your thumb and standing out like cords. Unfortunately, the neck harmonized with the other proportions, by which we mean that it was very bulky and very short, and it was to be feared that any great emotion would result in apoplexy for Brother Gorenflot. But, being perfectly conscious of this defect and of the danger to which it exposed him, Brother Gorenflot never allowed any strong emotion to get the better of him ; it was, in fact, very seldom — we are bound to make this statement — that he was as visibly thrown off his balance to such an extent as he was at the moment when Chicot entered his room.

" Hello ! my friend, what are you doing there ? " cried our Gascon, looking alternately at the vegetables, at Gorenflot, and then at the unsnuffed candle and at a goblet filled to the brim with water, tinted by a few drops of wine.

" You see for yourself, my brother. I am having my supper," replied Gorenflot, in a voice as resonant as that of the bell of the abbey.

" You call that supper. Gorenflot ? Herbs, cheese ? Oh, pshaw ! " cried Chicot.

"This is the first Wednesday of Lent; let us think of our souls, my brother, let us think of our souls !" answered Gorenflot, in a nasal twang, raising his eyes sanctimoniously to heaven.

Chicot was completely taken aback; his looks indicated that he had once seen Gorenflot glorify the holy season on which they were entering in quite a different manner.

" Our souls !" he cried, " and what the devil have herbs and water to do with our souls ? "

" ' On Friday meat thou shalt not eat, And not on Wednesday, either,' "

said Gorenflot.

" At what hour did you breakfast ? "

" I have not breakfasted, brother/' he replied, in a tone that was growing more and more nasal.

" Oh, if your religion consists in speaking through your nose, I can beat any monk in Christendom at that game. And if you have not been breakfasting, my brother," said Chicot, with a snuffle that at once challenged comparison with that of Brother Gorenflot, " what, in the name of mercy, have you been doing ? "

•"I have been composing a sermon," answered Gorenflot, proudly raising his head.

" Oh, nonsense ! a sermon, indeed ! and what for ? "

" To be delivered to-night in the abbey."

« Stay ! " thought Chicot. " A sermon to-night ? That 's queer."

" It is about time for me to leave," said Gorenflot, taking his first mouthful of the spinach and cheese, " it's time for me to think of returning, the congregation may get impatient."

Chicot remembered the crowd of monks he had seen on the way to the abbey, and as M. de Mayenne was, in all probability, among these monks, he wondered how it was that Gorenflot, whose eloquence had not been heretofore one of his titles to fame, had been selected by his superior, Joseph Fouloii, the then Abbot of Sainte Genevieve, to preach before the Lorraine prince and such a numerous assembly.

" Pshaw ! " said he. " When do you preach ? "

" Between nine and half-past nine, brother."

"Good! it's only a quarter to nine now. Surely you can give me five minutes. Ventre de bicfie ! it 's more than a week since we had a chance of hobnobbing together."

" That has not been your fault/' said Gorenflot, " and our friendship has not been lessened thereby, I assure you, my beloved brother. The duties of your office keep you at the side of our great King Henri III., whom God preserve ; the duties of mine impose upon me the task of collecting alms, and, after that, of praying ; it is not astonishing, then, that our paths should lie apart."

"'True/' said Chicot, "but, corbceuff isn't that the more reason why, when we do meet, we should be jolly ? "

"Oh, I am as jolly as jolly can be," answered Gorenflot, in a tone that was almost heart-broken, " but that does not render it the less necessary for me to leave you."

And the monk attempted to rise.

" At least finish your herbs," said Chicot, laying a hand on his shoulder and. forcing him to sit down again.

Gorenflot gazed on the spinach and heaved a sigh.

Then his eyes happening to fall on the colored water, he turned away his head.

Chicot saw it was time to begin operations.

" So you remember the little dinner I was just speaking about ? " said he. " Yes, it was, you know, at the Porte Mont-martre, where, while our great King Henri III. was belaboring himself and others, we were eating widgeons from the Grange-Bateliere marshes, garnished with crabs, and were drinking that nice Burgundy, — what 's this its name was ? — a wine, I think, you discovered yourself."

" It was the wine of my native country, La Romanee," answered Gorenflot.

" Ah, yes, now I recollect, the milk you sucked after making your appearance in this world, 0 worthy son of Noah !"

With a sad smile, Gorenflot licked his lips.

" What have you to say about the wine ? " asked Chicot.

" It was good; but there is better," answered the monk.

" Just what oar host, Claude Bonhomet, declared some time ago; he claims he has fifty bottles in his cellar compared to which that we drank at the Porte Montmartre was but sour vinegar."

11 He speaks the truth," said Gorenflot.

" What ! the truth, does he ? n cried Chicot, " and here you

are drinking that abominable red water when you have only to hold out your hand for wine like that! Faugh ! "

And Chicot seized the goblet and flung its contents out of the room.

" There is a time for everything, my brother," said Goren-flot. " Wine is good when we have nothing to do after we drink it except glorify the God who made it ; but when you have to preach a sermon, water is to be preferred, not because of its taste, but for its utility: facunda est aqua."

" Bah ! " retorted Chicot. " Mag is facundum est vinum, and the proof of it is that I, who have also a sort of sermon to preach, and have the utmost faith in my prescription, am going to order a bottle of that same La Romance ; and, by the .way, what would you advise me to have with it, Gorenflot ? "

" Don't have any of those herbs with it, at all events; they 're nauseous."

" Faugh, faugh," exclaimed Chicot, as he seized Gorenflot's plate and carried it to his nose, " faugh !"

And, thereupon, opening a little window, he hurled both herbs and plate into the street.

Then turning back:

" Maitre Claude ! " he cried.

The host, who had been probably listening at the door, appeared at once.

" Maitre Claude," said Chicot, " bring me two bottles of the Romanee which you hold to be better than anybody's."