“Hold your tongue; you are but a sycophant, and deserve punishment.”
And the monk, vigorous and strong, powerful as a bull, but overcome by wine and repentance, remained without defending himself in the hands of Chicot, who shook him like a balloon full of air.
“A punishment to me, to your friend, dear M. Chicot!”
“Yes, to you,” said Chicot, striking him over the shoulders with his stick.
“Ah! if I were but fasting.”
“You would beat me, I suppose; I, your friend.”
“My friend! and you treat me thus!”
“He who loves well chastises well,” said Chicot, redoubling his proofs of friendship. “Now,” said he, “go and sleep at the Corne d’Abondance.”
“I can no longer see my way,” cried the monk, from whose eyes tears were falling.
“Ah!” said Chicot, “if you wept for the wine you have drunk! However, I will guide you.”