“He has no neck.”
“My brothers,” continued Gorenflot: “I am a true martyr, and it is my cause that they defend at this moment or, rather, that of all good Catholics. You do not know what is passing in the provinces, we have been obliged at Lyons to kill a Huguenot who preached revolt. While one of them remains in France, there will be no tranquillity for us. Let us exterminate them. To arms! to arms!”
Several voices repeated, “To arms!”
“Par la mordieu!” said the king, “make this fellow hold his tongue, or he will make a second St. Bartholomew!”
“Wait,” said Chicot, and with his stick he struck Gorenflot with all his force on the shoulders.
“Murder!” cried the monk.
“It is you!” cried Chicot.
“Help me, M. Chicot, help me! The enemies of the faith wish to assassinate me, but I will not die without making my voice heard. Death to the Huguenots!”
“Will you hold your tongue?” cried Chicot. But at this moment a second blow fell on the shoulders of the monk with such force that he cried out with real pain. Chicot, astonished, looked round him, but saw nothing but the stick. The blow had been given by a man who had immediately disappeared in the crowd after administering this punishment.
“Who the devil could it have been?” thought Chicot, and he began to run after the man, who was gliding away, followed by only one companion.