"Oh! you wore a cuirass! What a fortunate thing, dear Monsieur Chicot; and you were saying that the ruffian wished to assassinate you."
"Diable! it hardly seems likely I should have taken any pleasure in giving myself a dagger thrust between my own shoulders. Now, what do you see?"
"A link broken."
"That dear captain was in good earnest then; is there much blood?"
"Yes, a good deal under the links."
"I must take off the cuirass, then," said Chicot.
Chicot took off his cuirass, and bared the upper part of his body, which seemed to be composed of nothing else but bones, of muscles spread over the bones, and of skin merely covering the muscles.
"Ah! Monsieur Chicot," exclaimed Bonhomet, "you have a wound as large as a plate."
"Yes, I suppose the blood has spread; there is what doctors call ecchymosis; give me some clean linen, pour into a glass equal parts of good olive oil and wine dregs, and wash that stain for me."
"But, dear M. Chicot, what am I to do with this body?"