“Which is the preacher?” said the king, “for they speak both at once.”
“The underneath one is the most eloquent,” said Chicot, “but the one at the top speaks the best French; listen, Henri.”
“My brethren,” said the monk, “Paris is a superb city; Paris is the pride of France, and the Parisians a fine people.” Then he began to sing, but the ass mingled his accompaniment so loudly that he was obliged to stop. The crowd burst out laughing.
“Hold your tongue, Panurge, hold your tongue,” cried the monk, “you shall speak after, but let me speak first.”
The ass was quiet.
“My brothers,” continued the preacher, “the earth is a valley of grief, where man often pan quench his thirst only with his tears.”
“He is drunk,” said the king.
“I should think so.”
“I, who speak to you,” continued the monk, “I am returning from exile like the Hebrews of old, and for eight days Panurge and I have been living on alms and privations.”
“Who is Panurge?” asked the king.