“The preacher Gorenflot,” cried Henri.
“Confiteor, confiteor,” repeated he.
“Himself,” said Chicot.
“He who——”
“Just so,” interrupted Chicot.
“Ah, ah!”
Gorenflot shook with terror, for he heard the sounds of swords clashing.
“Wait,” said Chicot, “the king must know all.” And, taking him aside, “My son,” said he, “thank God for having permitted this holy man to be born thirty-five years ago, for it is he who has saved us all.”
“How so?”
“It was he who recounted to me the whole plot, from the alpha to the omega.”