“My intrigues and plots!” cried David, frightened at this singular monk, whom he did not know, but who seemed to know him so well.
“Yes; and when you have told all that, give me up the papers, and perhaps God will let me absolve you.”
“What papers?” cried the sick man, in a voice as strong as though he were quite well.
“The papers that the pretended priest brought you from Avignon.”
“And who told you that he brought me papers?” cried the patient, putting one leg out of bed.
Gorenflot began to feel frightened, but he said firmly, “He who told me knew well what he was saying; give me the papers, or you shall have no absolution.”
“I laugh at your absolution,” cried David, jumping out of bed, and seizing Gorenflot by the throat, “and you shall see if I am too ill to strangle you.”
Gorenflot was strong, and he pushed David back so violently that he fell into the middle of the room. But he rose furious, and seizing a long sword, which hung on the wall behind his clothes, presented it to the throat of Gorenflot, who sank on a chair in terror.
“It is now your turn to confess,” said he, “speak, or you die.”
“Oh!” cried Gorenflot, “then you are not ill—not dying.”