Then the short man came out, paid the bill, and, followed by the others, took the road to Paris. Chicot followed them at a distance. They entered by the Porte St. Antoine, and entered the Hôtel Guise. Chicot waited outside a full hour, in spite of cold and hunger. At last the door reopened, but, instead of seven cavaliers wrapped in their cloaks, seven monks came out, with their hoods over their faces, and carrying immense rosaries.
“Oh!” said Chicot, “is, then, the Hôtel Guise so embalmed in sanctity that wolves change into lambs only by entering it? This becomes more and more interesting.”
And he followed the monks as he had followed the cavaliers, for he believed them to be the same. The monks passed over the bridge of Notre Dame, crossed the city and the petit pont, and went up the Rue St. Geneviève.
“Oh!” said Chicot, as he passed the house where he had kneeled in the morning, “are we returning to Fontainebleau? In that case I have made a round.”
However, the monks stopped at the door of the Abbey of St. Geneviève, in the porch of which stood another monk, who examined everyone’s hand.
“Why,” said Chicot, “it seems that to be admitted to night into the abbey one must have clean hands!”
Then he saw, with astonishment, monks appear from every street leading to the abbey, some alone, some walking in pairs, but all coming to the abbey.
“Ah!” said Chicot, “is there a general chapter at the abbey to-night? I have never seen one, and I should like it much.”
The monks entered, showing their hands, or something in them, and passed on.
“I should like to go also,” thought Chicot; “but for that I want two things—a monk’s robe, for I see no layman here, and then this mysterious thing which they show to the porter, for certainly they show something. Ah, Brother Gorenflot, if you were here!”