M. Bernouillet returned, saying, “He is gone.”
“The confessor?”
“He is no more a confessor than I am.”
“Will you send me my brother as soon as he comes in.”
“Even if he be drunk?”
“Whatever state he is in.”
Bernouillet went, and Chicot remained in a state of indecision as to what to do, for he thought, “If David is really so ill, he may have sent on the despatches by Gondy.” Presently he heard Gorenflot’s voice, singing a drinking song as he came up the stairs.
“Silence, drunkard!” said Chicot.
“Drunkard, indeed!”
“Yes; but come here and speak seriously, if you can.”