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It was opened by Claude Boutromet himself, who knew him at once, although he went out dressed as a cavalier, and returned attired as a monk. "Ah! is it you?" cried he. Chicot gave him a crown, and asked for Gorenflot. The host smiled, and said, "Look!" Brother Gorenflot lay snoring just in the place where Chicot had left him.
"Parbleu! here is our host, he shall decide." "So be it, but first let him uncork the wine." M. Boutromet uncorked a bottle and gave a glass to Chicot. Chicot swallowed and smacked his lips. "Ah!" said he, "I have a bad memory, I cannot remember if it be better or worse than that at Montmartre.
"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."
Then, in a low tone to her, he said, "We are allied against this Monsoreau; remember that it was not he who brought you back to your father, and be faithful to me." Chicot, after seeing with pleasure that Gorenflot still slept soundly, told M. Boutromet to retire and to take the light with him, charging him not to say anything of his absence.
"It is a wine of my country, La Romanee." "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 refilled the monk's glass. The first bottle was finished. "In the name of Bacchus, Momus, and Comus, trinity of the great saint Pantagruel, I baptize thee, carp," said Gorenflot. "Now," said Chicot, "to the health of the newly baptized; may it be cooked to perfection, and may M. Boutromet add to the excellent qualities which it has received from nature."
"Ah! yes, he is a very virtuous man, our King Henri III." "I do not know if he be virtuous; but I know that I have never seen anything there to make me blush." "You blush!" At this moment M. Boutromet entered with the omelet and two more bottles. "Bring it here," cried the monk, with a smile, which showed his thirty-two teeth. "But, friend, I thought you had a discourse to pronounce."
"Give me a few drops more, and I will tell you." Chicot filled his glass. He drank it off, and then said, "1561." "Right," cried Claude Boutromet, "it was 1561." "Brother Gorenflot," cried Chicot, "they have beatified men at Rome who were worth less than you." "A little habit," said Gorenflot, modestly. "And talent; for I flatter myself I have the habit, and I could not do it.
Now M. Boutromet, having remarked that, in all transactions between the monk and Chicot, it was the latter who paid, had a great deal of consideration for him, and promised all he wished.
Having once commenced, Gorenflot could not stop. His appetite was enormous; he finished the bird, and then called to Boutromet. "M. Claude," said he, "I am hungry; did you not offer me omelet just now?" "Certainly." "Well, bring it." "In five minutes." "Ah!" said Gorenflot, "now I feel in force; if the omelet were here, I could eat it at a mouthful, and I swallow this wine at a gulp."
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