“Well, sir!” cried the queen.
“Madame, the passage is quite clear and your majesty can continue your road.”
In fact, the procession arrived, in safety at Notre Dame, at the front gate of which all the clergy, with the coadjutor at their head, awaited the king, the queen and the minister, for whose happy return they chanted a Te Deum.
As the service was drawing to a close a boy entered the church in great excitement, ran to the sacristy, dressed himself quickly in the choir robes, and cleaving, thanks to that uniform, the crowd that filled the temple, approached Bazin, who, clad in his blue robe, was standing gravely in his place at the entrance to the choir.
Bazin felt some one pulling his sleeve. He lowered to earth his eyes, beatifically raised to Heaven, and recognized Friquet.
“Well, you rascal, what is it? How do you dare to disturb me in the exercise of my functions?” asked the beadle.
“Monsieur Bazin,” said Friquet, “Monsieur Maillard—you know who he is, he gives holy water at Saint Eustache——”
“Well, go on.”
“Well, he received in the scrimmage a sword stroke on the head. That great giant who was there gave it to him.”
“In that case,” said Bazin, “he must be pretty sick.”