“Now, my friends,” said he, “will you take me to my hôtel?”
“Ah, certainly,” said the old woman, “poor dear young man, the butcher is strong, and then he has his horse, on which you can ride.”
“Yes, my gentleman, my horse and I are at your service.”
“Nevertheless, my son,” said the monk, “I think you would do well to confess.”
“What are you called?” asked Bussy.
“Brother Gorenflot.”
“Well Brother Gorenflot, I trust my hour has not yet arrived and as I am cold, I wish to get quickly home and warm myself.”
“What is your hotel called?”
“Hôtel de Bussy.”
“How!” cried all, “you belong to M. de Bussy?”