He then replaced the letter in the pocket of the dead man, had the linen, which had been steeped in the oil and wine, applied to his wound by way of a cataplasm, put on again the safety coat of mail next to his skin, his shirt over his coat of mail, picked up his sword, wiped it, thrust it into the scabbard, and withdrew.
He returned again, however, saying:
"If, after all, the story which I have invented does not seem satisfactory to you, you can accuse the captain of having thrust his own sword through his body."
"A suicide?"
"Well, that don't compromise any one, you understand."
"But they won't bury this ill-starred fellow in holy ground."
"Pooh," said Chicot, "will that be giving him much pleasure?"
"Why, yes, I should think so."
"In that case, do as you like, my dear Bonhomet; adieu."
Then, returning a second time, he said: