"That is not your affair."
"What! not my affair?"
"No. Give me some ink, a pen, and a sheet of paper."
"Immediately, dear Monsieur Chicot," said Bonhomet, as he darted out of the room.
Meanwhile Chicot, who probably had no time to lose, heated at the lamp the point of a small dagger, and cut in the middle of the wax the seal of the letter. This being done, and as there was nothing else to retain the dispatch, Chicot drew it from its envelope, and read it with the liveliest marks of satisfaction.
Just as he had finished reading it, Maître Bonhomet returned with the oil, the wine, the paper, and the pen.
Chicot arranged the pen, ink, and paper before him, sat himself down at the table, and turned his back with stoical indifference toward Bonhomet for him to operate upon. The latter understood the pantomime, and began to rub it.
However, as if, instead of irritating a painful wound, some one had been tickling him in the most delightful manner, Chicot, during the operation, copied the letter from the Duc de Guise to his sister, and made his comments thereon at every word.
"DEAR SISTER—The expedition from Anvers has succeeded for everybody, but has failed as far as we are concerned. You will be told that the Duc d'Anjou is dead; do not believe it—he is alive.
"He lives, you understand, and that is the whole question.